


Come to Me

by pied_r_piper



Category: Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Friends to Lovers, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 122,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_r_piper/pseuds/pied_r_piper
Summary: After being left at the altar, all the jilted groom wants is a return to normalcy. All the anxious caterer wants is her check.(with apologies to “Come to Me” by The Goo Goo Dolls)





	1. I’ll be kind, if you’ll be faithful

With two hours left until the guests were to arrive, Tachikawa Mimi was running out of time. Her thin, short fingers worked quickly on the finishing touches for the appetizers, while every few seconds she nervously glanced at the bar beside her. The bartender was wiping down all the glasses, setting each in a row on the counter. The tower was growing steadily, and there did not seem to be enough space to accommodate all the silver cups. Slowly, the line of glasses began edging over the counter and onto the adjoining table. Her table. She glowered, distracted by the man’s inability to keep his work off her own, then attempted to focus on the last of the appetizer trays.

Satisfied, she threw the oblivious bartender another annoyed glare, then darted past the waiters and vendors in the large dining hall, slipping into the kitchen next door. Her head chef was barking out orders at the assistants working at the different tables and stoves, his voice far more commanding than she ever seemed to make hers sound. She was grateful for his discipline, though she wished he would fix his hair net. The last thing she needed was for one his unkempt, thick maroon locks to make its way onto a guest’s plate.

Walking through the larger kitchen, she bustled into the smaller baker’s kitchen at the far side of the room, stopping at the door to pull off her gloves. The last task before the event was to finish the last touches on the wedding cake, and she would need all the dexterity in her fingers to pull off the intricate details with steady hands.

Moving to the other end of the table on which the cake stood majestically on its towering platter, she picked up her icing bag, leaned forward, bit her bottom lip, and concentrated.

“Do you always stick out your tongue like that when you’re working?”

Mimi shrieked, scared by the unexpected and unfamiliar voice, and spun around, dropping the icing bag on the table.

In the corner of the room stood a tall young man in a dark black suit and a pink and white pinstriped tie. He wore a peony flower in the lapel of his jacket, his entire attire demonstrating a sense of ceremony and importance. But the way he carried himself indicated nothing of the sort. He was slouched, shoulders hunched and eyes lackluster. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, and when he spoke, it was distracted and hoarse.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless from the shock of seeing another person—uninvited—in her kitchens. Dealing with a nosy guest was the last thing she needed now. Already her nerves were shot from another event, just like they always were whenever she had to cater something as big as this one.

“I was going to go to a wedding,” he answered simply, eyes half open as though he were squinting.

Mimi appraised him carefully, uncertain.

“I think it’s about to start,” she said.

“Not without me,” he answered, and this time, he smiled.

His strange passivity disappeared when he grinned, and the light in his eyes seemed to grow in amusement. He straightened where he stood, hands still in his pockets, then walked towards the cake table, circling it—and her slowly as he examined each part of the design. She stared at him apprehensively, wondering how to politely tell him to get lost so she could get back to her duties.

Then he stopped on the other side of the table and whistled lowly. “Did you do all this?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling a bit of her confidence return at his admiration of her craftsmanship. Flattery took the edge off her anxious nerves, and she lifted her chin. “All of it.”

“It’s impressive,” he said, nodding his approval.

Then, without hesitating, he reached out a hand and deftly lifted the sugar figurine of the groom off the top of the highest cake tier. She gave a small cry of shock, hoping his rough fingers wouldn’t damage all the tiny carve details she had worked so painstakingly on for the past few days. “Be careful with that!” she protested. “It’s not a toy!”

He looked amused. “It’s very good.”

His compliments were distracting her, and she grew flustered, attempting to put her foot down and keep her authority. “Listen, I don’t know who you are but—,”

“You don’t?” He seemed genuinely surprised, and then he relaxed, nodding his head. “That’s right. You worked with her setting up everything for us tonight, didn’t you?” He lifted the little figure next to his own face, smirking. “Still can’t see the resemblance?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again, realization dawning on her stunned face.  _ The groom. _  What on earth was he doing here? He was going to miss everything dallying about the dining hall—why wasn’t he at the ceremony hall?

Mimi saw him differently at last, and now his behavior seemed alarming given the timing of his appearance here. She regarded him with concern, the cheer in his voice sounding something like bitterness. He continued running his fingers over the little figurine, smiling to himself, and she carefully asked, “Are you all right?”

He ignored her. “Can I keep this?”

“It’s made of sugar,” she said. “It will fall apart.”

The smile grew wider and he winked at her. “A perfect likeness, then.”

His fingers wrapped around the little figure, forming a fist, and she saw the smile on his face disappear.

The doors to the kitchen opened, and they were discovered by an anxious looking young woman who stumbled into the room in high heels she evidently was not used to wearing. She wore a satin pink floor-length gown with white peonies tucked behind her ear, the sheer shawl around her shoulders clasped together with another matching flower. Her lipstick shimmered in the fluorescent lights as her mouth pulled into a relieved sigh when she saw the man.

“There you are!” She went to him at once, pulling on his free hand.  “We’ve all been looking for you everywhere.”

“Hikari—,” he said in a calm voice, but she still fussed over him worriedly.

“Everyone’s waiting alrea—,”

“She’s not coming, Hikari.”

The woman stopped, hearing his serious tone at last. “Who’s not coming?”

He looked at her, saying nothing, then bowed his head as though he couldn’t bear telling her the news again. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she considered his meaning, then suddenly she gave a gasp, hand flying to her mouth.

Mimi realized what had happened at the same time as the other woman did, and her stomach dropped, mouth dry.

“Are you sure?” the woman asked him, whispering.

In reply, he produced a letter from the envelope peeking out from his pocket. She took it, opening it quickly, and when she looked up again, her expression was pained and crestfallen.

“Oh, Taichi.”

He ran trembling hands through unruly brown hair and shrugged, smiling through tightly closed lips.

The woman looked as though she was about to cry, and Mimi knew she could not linger in their background so awkwardly anymore. Wanting to give them privacy to deal with the sudden situation, she cleared her throat, but her anxiousness made her sound much more like a strangled bird than she would have preferred in such a serious atmosphere. The pair looked at her, and she tried her best to look professional.

“I think I should go,” she offered.

“We are so sorry to trouble you in your work,” the woman said to her in a kind voice, placing one hand on the man’s arm as she spoke. “But I do not think we will be having the dinner now—,”

“No,” he interrupted.

Both women looked at him, surprised, and he shook his head. “Why spoil the fun? We can at least have the party, can’t we?”

“Taichi…,” the woman said softly, her eyes softening with concern.

But the man was insistent, his smile stronger on his lips. He nodded at Mimi, who was still confused, her mouth parted slightly. “No sense in having all your hard work go to waste. You should see what she how she made the little figures for the cake, Hikari.” He raised the miniature groom to his cheek again, lifting a mischievous eyebrow. “Don’t you think it looks just like me?”

“You don’t have to do this,” she replied, ignoring his laughter, or perhaps seeing through it.

He did not let his mask down though, not in front of her. Instead, he gave her a friendly pat over the hand she had on his arm, squeezing her fingers.

“Yes, I do,” he said, and Mimi saw the woman hide a frown in her trembling smile.

Mimi again thought she was intruding, and this time she attempted to scuttle by them, back pressed against the wall as she felt her way around blindly. Her foot hit the edge of the table, however, and the steel bowl of freshly whipped cream slammed into the floor, flicking the white foam all across the room—and all over the woman’s beautiful pink dress. She  froze, horrified, but the man just started laughing, trying to scuff off the cream from his newly polished black shoes, and even the woman had to suppress a giggle, assuring the caterer that there was nothing to worry about. 

For the rest of the evening, Mimi worked tirelessly to make sure everything went well at the dinner, because serving a good meal was all she really ever could do in difficult times. She was not sure how much her efforts were noticed, but she was convinced they were appreciated. She had taken the task of informing her assistants of the change in the situation, while she overheard the groom explaining the same to the wedding guests as they began to arrive in the dining hall, shuttled in from the ceremony that had been cancelled just as they arrived.

As she worked, she would spy him occasionally around the room, speaking and joking with different groups of people, sometimes next to the woman in the pink gown and sometimes with others who always matched each of his cheerful antics with greater ones of their own. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement among the guests—the ones who had remained for the party anyway—to have as much raucous fun as possible, for his sake, and they were quickly achieving their goal with all the enthusiasm of a teenage house party with no adult supervision.

Before long, the party had descended into an all-out drunken debauchery. When it was time for Mimi to leave, after the last of the leftovers had been packed away and the vendors were cleaning up, the festivities were still carrying on, fueled by emergency trips to fetch more liquor from the nearest all night mini-mart. Before she left, she glimpsed two groomsmen affixing bottles of beer to each of their hands with tape, while some of the other guests were dancing barefoot on what would have been the newlyweds’ dining table, and still others singing wildly to terrible karaoke. She did not see the groom anywhere, however, or the woman in pink.

She took the subway home, switching trains twice, and finally reached her tiny, uptown apartment well into the small hours of the morning. Her eyes were red and itchy when she entered the flat, mumbling a greeting as she slipped off her shoes.

“Welcome home,” was the answer, and her boyfriend looked up from his laptop, smiling at her. He wore a plain white T-shirt over blue pajama bottoms, his ankles crossed over the coffee table with his computer in his lap. Her eyes rested on his feet on the table, and he quickly removed them, sheepish, remembering her pet peeve too late. “How was the event?”

“Long,” she answered with a sigh, flopping down on the couch next to him.

He lifted an arm so she could snuggle into his shoulder, eyes closed. “Was the wedding nice?”

“There wasn’t one,” she said. “Bride called it off just before the ceremony.”

Kido Jou raised an eyebrow, shocked. “She did what?” he asked, horrified at the thought. “That’s terrible. Was the groom all right? What happened?”

Mimi winched, remembering the scene in the kitchen. “I don’t know, really. It was all kind of sudden. But the strange thing was, everyone went on to have the dinner and party as normal. They’re actually all still there, even though all the vendors’ contracts were over.”

Jou was thoughtful. “I guess that’s just how some people deal with pain.”

“With a party?”

“With therapy.”

Mimi considered his answer before responding. “It felt more like denial than therapy, but I guess everyone did look like they were having fun.”

Jou smiled. “Well that’s good. It’ll be nice to have some good memories.”

Mimi agreed, but her thoughts were only full of the way the groom clutched his little sugar miniature in his fist all night, a grin on his face all the while.  Shaking her head, she sat up with one hand on the back of the laptop. She gave him her best practiced frown, pursing her lips, and he threw his head back on the couch, groaning. “I know, I know. I just have to finish filing these diagnosis reports. I’ll only be ten minutes.”

“You always say that,” she pointed out, “and then it turns into twenty minutes, then forty, then sixty—,”

“You’ve made your point,” he interrupted her gently, smiling. “I’ll be in real soon. I promise.”

Mimi shrugged her narrow shoulders, rising from the couch and tossing her chin in the air, miming a wounded pride that had the tiniest bit of truth to it. “Sure, you will.”  And as she walked by him towards their bedroom, she stopped at the entrance to the hallway, slyly glanced back at him, and wiggled her body suggestively. He laughed, his chuckle like the deep and comforting anchor, pulling her stress and worry from her like a weight off her chest.

He kept his promise, meeting her in her arms much sooner than he had said.


	2. You be kind and I’ll be grateful

Takenouchi Sora, upon entering, first thought that the hotel room looked like a natural disaster, but then she decided that would be offensive to an actual natural disaster. No, this was an altogether different kind of wreckage. Shirts, jackets, ties, and shoes had been thrown everywhere; half-empty (or was it half-full?) bottles of champagne and cans of beer littered every available surface, which were not that available in the first place, what with the piles of takeout food and boxes from the catered feast stacked over them in unsteady towers. The entire room smelled of stale musk, alcohol, fine dining food, and pizza grease, a combination that was not in any way pleasant.

Sora grimaced, stepping lithely around the double beds and in between scattered shot glasses and passed out men. She ignored the snoring and heavy breathing, eyes scanning over each disheveled head poking out from under a mess of wrinkled clothes and crumpled sheets. Not finding the person she was looking for, she retreated from the smelly room and decided to try the suite next door—but then she stopped.

He was lying on the bathroom floor with the door wide open and the lights still on, sprawled on his side around the commode. His suit jacket was missing, his shirt front was stained and unbuttoned to the mid-chest, and one pant leg was rolled all the way up to reveal a bare calf with no sock or shoe. She stared at the hairless leg, her gaze travelling up to his face slowly. His mouth was hanging open, and there was a large bruise covering his left eye. 

With a sigh, Sora kicked him. 

Yagami Taichi gave a start, sat up quickly, and immediately groaned, clutching his stomach. Sora stepped back, wary, but Taichi waved a reassuring hand at her, his face screwed up in a painful wince. 

"There's nothing left to puke out," he said, his voice rough and hoarse as though he had been shouting, and Sora remembered the karaoke machine with another shudder.

Then he frowned, fingering the edge of the bruise under his swollen eye, "What happened to my face?"

"Yamato hit you." 

This was not a particularly unusual event, so Taichi did not react with surprise or indignation. "I suppose I deserved it?"

Sora crossed her arms over her chest, hesitating, and then admitted in a soft voice, "You kept trying to call her."

"Ah." Taichi poked at his bruise some more and Sora was not sure what else to say in the silence that fell between them. 

She observed him closely, studying his face, but he stared at the floor as he rubbed his sore cheek, deliberately keeping his gaze from hers. She always thought she knew him better than anyone else, but sometimes, he was still a mystery. She was not sure how that made her feel, to know he kept parts of himself hidden from even his closest friends, but she knew it was only out of some misguided sense of protection and pride. She wanted to tell him he didn't have to be so brave around her, that it was all right, but she didn’t even know where to start or if it even really was all right. All she knew was that she hated seeing him so miserable, and she hated it even more when he pretended he wasn’t.

His eyes trailed over his exposed leg and he gaped at it. "Why is my leg shaved?"

Sora rolled her eyes, exasperated. "Why wouldn't it be? You were drinking champagne and beer all night, and that was before the tequila shots. I'm surprised you didn't get something pierced or tattooed." She paused, only just then realizing that he was likely beginning the process by shaving the hair off his leg. She was suddenly grateful that the unhealthy mix of liquor kept him away from tattoo parlors and had him hurling out the stupidity with his guts all night instead.

"Well, I wasn't drunk enough to cut myself with the razor," he pointed out, sounding pleased about this evidently incredible demonstration of self-control. 

Sora was not nearly as impressed. "That's because Takeru did it. Drunk. So he cut his hand instead of your leg."

Taichi was awed by such a noble sacrifice. "He's a good friend."

"Taichi," she said in irritation, "I am not trying to tell you what to do, but do you really think this is the right way to be acting right now?"

"How should I be acting?" 

It wasn't a defensive question, nor did he sound like he was as frustrated with her as she seemed to be with him for putting his behavior on check. It was, instead, an honest and quiet remark, spoken like he was hoping she would tell him exactly what to do, asking for someone to make sense of the senseless.

Sora chewed on her bottom lip, uncertain. "I don't know," she admitted at last. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

His smile was genuine in response, though small. "I'm okay." His words had every ounce of reassurance, while his eyes had nothing of the sort.

"You know you're a really bad liar, don’t you?"

"Well, I know she didn't want to marry me."

Her heart skipped a beat, breath catching in her chest. 

He shrugged, scratching the now smooth skin of his knee and unrolling the pant leg. He spoke conversationally, as though the topic wasn't the sudden and violent end of what he thought his life was going to be. "She wanted to before, but she stopped wanting to yesterday." He searched her face, and in his eyes was a helplessness and confusion she had never seen before. "Didn't she—I mean, did she say anything, to you or maybe—when you saw her, did she sound like she was—?"

"Taichi. Stop."

And he did.

She was shaken, hearing him talk like that, and the startled thundering of her heart turned into a fierce anger. She curled her fingers into fists and had to take a moment to even her breathing, her desire to lash out and run to his defense becoming momentarily overwhelming. She swallowed the thick lump in her throat, blinking back furious tears, and forced a smile at him, though his gaze had dropped to the floor again and he did not notice her reaction. 

"Otherwise I'll have to hit you," she added as a joking afterthought to calm herself as much as to lighten the mood, and he smiled at his hands in his lap.

"I'm not that much up for a matching pair right now," he said with a chuckle, pointing to his black eye. "I appreciate the offer though."

"Anytime."

With a low groan, he started to pull himself up to his feet, holding his head. "Tell your boyfriend thanks for the terrific shiner."

Sora hesitated again, opening her mouth to tell him the truth, then thought better of it. "Tell him yourself. He's waiting in the lobby."

"I don't need an escort home," Taichi protested, but they knew him too well.

"Come on," she smiled, "go get your things."

But he stopped in his tracks as they walked out of the bathroom, stiff and uncomfortable. 

"What is it?" she asked, concerned.

He shook his head, nervously running fingers through his uncombed hair. "It's, ah...my stuff."

She understood his meaning immediately, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Don't worry about it," she said cheerfully, grinning. "You go on downstairs and find Yamato. I'll go get your suitcase."

But he shrugged off her touch, and for the first time in their conversation, he looked irritated. "No," he said in a determined voice, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll go.”

She quickly followed after him as he threw open the door, and together they strode along the long carpeted hallway of the hotel corridor, ascending the stairs one flight, and stopped, finally, in front of one of the more expensive rooms in the building: the honeymoon suite. Taichi pulled out his key, unused.

Sora watched him apprehensively, but in the next moment, Taichi raised his chin in defiance and unlocked the door.

The room was beautiful.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with velvet curtains lined the far side of the wall, and the furniture included several cushioned chairs and a fainting couch that faced the balcony doors. There were white rose petals leaving a trail from the door to the balcony, and all around the king-sized bed, upon which were arranged a collection of heart-shaped pillows. In the middle of blankets sat a fluffy red teddy bear outfitted in a miniature tux and holding hands—Sora assumed it was with Velcro—with another bear dressed in a veil and white dress. Both their stomachs were imprinted with the cringe worthy phrase "I love you beary much," and Sora hoped it wasn't Taichi who had approved such a ridiculous centerpiece. She thought again of the only other person who would have arranged this, and she glowered, hands turning into fists again. Beside the bed was an ice bucket, now melted, containing a bottle of expensive champagne, and a huge bouquet of flowers were placed delicately in each corner of the luxury suite. Each one boasted a congratulations to the new "Mr. and Mrs. Yagami Taichi."

There was no trace of her anywhere. No suitcase, no clothes, nothing.

She had a done a thorough job of it, Sora thought to herself bitterly, and then gave a start when she saw Taichi approach the bed and reach for the bears. He separated their hands, lifting each one up in either of his own.

He glanced between them, nose wrinkled. "You know, these looked a lot better in the catalog. I feel like they weren't this red in the pictures."

She gaped at him, stunned. "You mean...," she began slowly, "...you did pick them?"

He shot her a look, wounded that she would think he would voluntarily browse through stuffed animal gift brochures in his leisure time. "It came with the room, and we could pick the style from their catalog. I didn’t pick this exact one; she did. I wanted the otters, but the bears came with the outfits and the otters didn’t, so she picked the bears.” He released the stuffed animals, and they toppled lightly onto the mattress. “We did do some of the planning together, you know. I wasn't always unavailable to her—,"

"You were never unavailable," she interrupted at once, and the harsh conviction in her voice made him stare at her wide-eyed. Her face flushed a deep red at her outburst, matching the auburn of her hair, and she turned away from him to avoid his scrutiny, opening the closet.

She froze.

He laughed, rubbing his face. "It’s not like she would really take that with her."

Sora couldn't move, blinking back frustrated tears. Everything seemed to be coming apart all at the same time, and looking at this gorgeous white dress just made it worse. Her anger left her, her empathy disappeared. These things weren’t supposed to happen to him, to them.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned immediately towards him, bursting into tears, and buried her face in his chest, arms flung around his neck. His hands went around her waist, hugging her tight, rubbing her back comfortingly.

“She left me, Sora. Not you.”

That just made her cry harder, uncontrollably. She became angry at herself for the unusual emotional outburst, but she couldn’t stop herself now that it had started. After a few moments, her cries turned into hiccups and he pushed her back gently, tilting her face up with a finger under her chin. Her eyes were watery and red, and her nose runny. He pulled the sleeve of his shirt down and rubbed her nose dry for her, and she made a face at him, heaving shuddering gasps of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she was not quite sure why she was apologizing.

“It’s okay,” he replied with an honest smile.

“I should be telling you that,” she said between hiccups.

With another reassuring smile, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head in response. Letting her go, Taichi reached past her into the closet and pushed the wedding dress aside to get to his suitcase. He dragged it over to the bed, snapped the locks open, digging out a change of clothes. Sora dried her splotchy red face as best she could while he changed in the bathroom, rolling up what was left of his suit and stuffing it back into the luggage carrier once he’d reemerged into the room. Setting the bag onto the ground, he gave the suite the onceover, a wistful frown on his lips.

“Maybe you and Yamato should cross this place off your list,” he told her jokingly. “It might be cursed.”

She rolled her eyes, feeling her nerves settle, if a little bit uneasily, at his calm demeanor.

When they got down to the lobby, they were met with a very disgruntled blond-haired man. He was leaning against the wall across from the elevator banks, blue eyes narrowed and foot tapping on the ground, a distracted habit of his he had picked up from his chain-smoking neurotic father. He wore dark denim jeans with a black polo shirt, and his hard expression faltered when he saw Sora. She immediately diverted her gaze elsewhere, and his resumed his annoyed scowl. “What took you so long?”

Taichi held up his hands in mock surrender. “In my defense, I just got left at the altar.”      

Ishida Yamato frowned deeply at his joking humor, but he chose instead to change the subject. “Got everything?”

“Mostly everything,” Taichi said with another laugh, but neither of his friends were amused anymore.

They exchanged a look, the kind that couples in long-term relationships were required to master to become essentially one being, but then Sora broke her gaze, biting her lip uncomfortably. Yamato nodded at the front desk, behind which stood two tight-lipped concierge staff members, uniformed in matching black suits. Taichi understood, leaving his suitcase behind as he sauntered up to the desk to cheerfully check out, his loud amusement at doing thoroughly confusing the soft spoken man reservedly assisting him.

As they waited, Sora could feel Yamato’s eyes settle on her, but she continued to study the tiled floor of the lobby instead.

“Do you want a lift?” he asked her softly, and she shook her head.

“I’ll take a taxi.” Then she looked up, suddenly remembering what it meant for Yamato to be taking Taichi home. “Wait,” she stammered, horrified, “the flat—,”

“I took care of it,” he answered smoothly, blue eyes darting away from her as soon as she turned her gaze up to his.

Sora opened and closed her mouth several times, confused. “You took care of it?” she repeated, lost at his meaning.

Yamato shrugged, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his pants. “I wasn’t going to let him come home to an apartment full of her things.” He paused, his voice deep and thoughtful. “I didn’t have to do much. She had already been there.”

“That’s why you weren’t there last night.”

He said nothing, shrugging noncommittally, and she admonished herself for being so stunned by his actions at all. Of course, Yamato would do something like that, quietly taking care of the things that needed to be done, always one step ahead when it came to protecting the people he loved. When wasn’t he thinking of everyone else?

She blinked quickly, feeling the corners of her eyes prickling again. She became impatient to leave, breath hitched in her tight chest. “I should go.”

Yamato nodded, gaze trained on Taichi’s back as the latter bent over the reception desk, pen in his hand. The concierge was pointing to different lines on the bill, speaking barely above a whisper, and Taichi was scratching his cheek with the top of the pen as he listened, eyebrows rising higher and higher. Yamato straightened where he stood, and Sora took advantage of his distraction to quickly walk by them, crossing the lobby to the revolving doors.

“Sora?”

She stopped just before the doors, fixing her expression into the calmest smile she could manage before turning around. Taichi’s lip curled into a small smirk, brows knit in confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to get to work,” she lied. “How about I bring you dinner after?”

“My mom said she and my dad are coming,” he explained with a mournful shake of his head. “I’d rather have you.”

Sora promised she would give him a call when she could, and without looking at Yamato again, she left. Taichi watched for reflection through the revolving doors for a minute, then rounded on his best friend so quickly that the latter took a frightened step back, eyebrows raised.

“What did you do to her?” demanded Taichi.

“Nothing,” Yamato defended himself crossly, irritated. “She’s the one who broke up with me.”

 It slipped out before he could close his mouth, and he did so now with flustered regret, eyes narrowed.

Taichi regarded him suspiciously, then asked, “When?”

“Last week,” he admitted, though he was not sure why he was willingly volunteering up such personal information without putting up a fight at all. Maybe he was just tired of keeping up the pretense for so long, not wanting to distract from the ceremony, not able to even confide in his closest friend. But after yesterday’s events it seemed selfish to bring something like this up in comparison. It wasn’t the same ending, but another ending it was in either miserable case.

“We just wanted different things,” he offered after a moment in a poor explanation, but Taichi neither questioned it nor continued interrogating him. Suddenly the silence felt awkward, as both men considered their now unexpectedly similar boat.

“You all right?” Taichi asked in the gruff sort of way emotionally stagnant men sometimes did.

Yamato didn’t miss a beat. “Are you?”

Taichi pointed at his black eye in response, and Yamato raised his chin proudly, unapologetic. Shaking his head, Taichi closed his hand around the handle of his luggage, dragging it behind him as he marched across the lobby. “I’m thinking we should take it back to elementary school from now on, Ishida. We don’t need girls to have fun.”

Yamato refused to indulge the other implications of such a remark , following him out the door with a smile all the same.


	3. Cover me with kisses dear

He was waiting for her at the door to their shop, stretching his arms into the air with a very loud and exaggerated groan. The dark circles under eyes cast deep shadows over his already tanned face, unruly maroon hair curling in untamed wisps around ears slightly too large for his head, but in an endearing sort of way. He was wearing a dark blue football jacket, emblazoned with the mascot of his youth league, and beige colored shorts, revealing scabby knees and muscled legs tucked into a pair of ratty white sneakers. A thin scar ran along the length of his upper calf to the side of his ankle on his right leg, the aftermath of an injury that had taken him out of football for good, though he was not the sort to heed doctor’s advice often. The clearest evidence of this was the athletic tape wrapped around his right knee, and Mimi let her gaze linger over the bandage disapprovingly before fixing her face into a more cheerful smile, cautiously deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt this time and not tell Jou he had been running again.

“Good morning!” she greeted happily.

His response was grouchy and stubborn, wincing when she shot her smile at him like an obnoxious beam of sunshine into his eye. Motomiya Daisuke could only be pacified with coffee in the mornings, but he was too cheap to pick up any on the way to work where he could get free cups of the good brew all day.

“Oh, yeah?" he demanded, wrinkling his nose. "What’s good about mornings? Tell me one thing!”

"You're so agreeable in the morning," she cooed. She pinched his cheek, then ducked under his outstretched hand when he attempted to swat hers away and unlocked the door. 

Their workplace was one large open air kitchen: a small, contained lobby greeted them at the entrance, complete with a standing desk with a phone and workplace computer, beside a set of armchairs and a little round table on which Mimi had set a small potted cactus plant, a gift from her mother when she had opened. Behind this welcome area was the majority of the space, divided into large steel tables that ended in either commercial-sized steel sinks or in stoves and ovens with full ranges. In the massive open metal pantries along both walls were shelves stacked with tins, boxes, Tupperware containers, and all kinds of appliances and utensils, while in the left corner stood three enormous refrigerators and two long horizontal freezers. Mimi had deliberately designed the entire space to be open and interactive, wanting to create a business center that was collaborative like a communal kitchen, and she was proud of the little building. It was more like home than her own apartment sometimes, and she hoped her staff thought the same. 

She flipped on the lights by the door as Daisuke followed after her, dragging his feet tiredly. The pair moved like clockwork about the store, adjusting appliances, straightening brochures on the round table, ripping off the old date page on the desktop calendar, switching on the coffee maker that was on the little table by the office computer, and setting out mugs on the front desk, all without skipping a beat of rhythm. It had been this way since they opened, with Mimi as chef and owner and Daisuke as her loyal sous chef who managed so much of their business he might as well be a partner. Mimi supposed that when two people worked together for so long, they were bound to establish a certain synchronized rapport, particularly if their personalities were evenly matched. Well, mostly even: Daisuke never seemed to be worried about anything, and Mimi usually remembered to think before she spoke. Well, usually. Actually, she was pretty terrible about that, too. Maybe that was why they got on so well.

Daisuke let his messenger bag down at the front desk as he waited for the coffee, starting the computer. He accepted the beverage gratefully when Mimi approached with a piping hot cup, blowing on her own. Holding the mug in one hand, he pointed to the computer screen and tapped the folder icon labelled “Yagami” with a stubby forefinger. "It's been more than a week now. We’re going to have to settle this one today.”

Mimi paused, brows knit curiously. “Settle what?”       

“Remember that wedding reception we catered, the one with the bride who ran off? They had us way over our contracts. We had to charge him for the rest of it, and he hasn't paid yet.”

“Oh,” said Mimi, forehead wrinkled, and Daisuke’s eyes narrowed.

“Mimi.” His tone was a mix of admonishment and exasperation, as though he already knew what her reservations were going to be.

She made them anyway. “I mean, it was sort of an unusual series of events….”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insisted, gulping down a scalding mouthful of coffee. “You have to honor the contracts you sign. It’s about responsibility.”

She declined the urge to comment on the irony of Daisuke lecturing her on responsible behavior. For the briefest of moments, her mind flashed back to his birthday only a few weeks before, and how he’d ended the night wearing his chef hat around the front of his naked waist and shimmying about the crowded parking lot. She decided not to bring up that event again, though she highly doubted he would be embarrassed by it still, if he ever had been.

She fixed her expression into a stubborn pout. “I know that. But I think there’s something to be said for making exceptions when unexpected things happen.”

“You can’t run a business with a soft heart, Mimi. You have to be firm. If you let one client walk all over you, then they all will, and what will happen to all this if that keeps happening?” He gestured wildly about the kitchen, spilling a little coffee over the side of the mug in his enthusiasm to make his point.

“Don’t say ‘keeps’,” she said crossly, too stubborn for her own good. “You make it sound like I ignore all the contracts we sign.”

He started ticking off points with his fingers for emphasis. “There was the Ichijoji wedding that you didn’t charge for they thirty extra guests they brought; the Izumi party when you accepted the deposit a full week after it was due; and the Hida contract you gave a discount on because it  _ rained _ —,”

“Stop exaggerating!” she snapped back, irritated and secretly amazed that his memory was so good this early in the morning. 

“None of these people do what they do on purpose, Mimi,” he insisted, continuing his lecture despite the deepening of her pout. “But you can’t be so lenient in a business. So the ceremony was cancelled because she changed her mind. That really sucks, sure, but it’s still their obligation to cover the costs of the contract. That’s what they agreed to, and it’s the right thing to do.”

Mimi was still unconvinced, “I think the right thing to do would be to give the guy a break.”

But Daisuke just waved the suggestion aside dismissively. “He’ll be fine. Men are men. They have too much pride to change.”

Again, visions of a nude Daisuke streaking around the parking lot flashed through her mind’s eye.  _ Right _ , she thought.  _ Pride _ . 

He tapped the icon on the screen again, resolute and firm, and Mimi reluctantly reminded herself why it was so important to have someone like him on her staff. She knew he was right about this. Contracts were meant to be binding documents, and they did have to be followed. Like it or not, she had to admit she was too lenient when she let her emotions drive her impulsive empathy too much, and being reminded of the times she had given in made her realize she couldn't keep going like this. Already, she was facing tough competition with other caterers and vendors who were inching into their markets, and they weren't going to win people over long term by acquiescing on the short. She had to have a stern fist about this.

Well, maybe not her specifically. Maybe she could just be the pretty face and Daisuke could be the hard line. They could each play to their strengths that way. She was too pretty to be yelled at by strangers, but Daisuke could certainly stand up to a bullish client or two. 

So she opened her eyes wide like a puppy, tilting her face up to look at him with her mouth pouting over the top of her coffee mug. “Can’t you call him?”

Daisuke’s eyes narrowed. “Mimi.”

She groaned at once, setting her cup down and falling dramatically over the desk so her arms spread out over her head, face pressed into the surface, and whined, rather childishly, “But I don’t want to!”

“Mimi!”

“No!”

"Fine!" he barked, grabbing the cordless phone off the wall hook by the front desk. "I'll do it. But you're going to go pick up the check."

Mimi sat up at once, shocked. "That's not fair!"

But Daisuke had already dialed the number on the contract, and before she could interrupt him, the line connected. Immediately, he adopted his business personality, beginning the conversation as cool and quietly persistent as a vendor with a mission could. "Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Yagami?.... Yes, this is Motomiya Daisuke with Mimi's Catering, how are you this morning?"

He side-stepped her kick effortlessly, moving around the desk where she couldn't reach him, and she glared, annoyed he would make it sound like she had been pestering him to call the client and make them pay up.

He continued chatting, ignoring her icy stare. "That's great to hear. Listen, I was calling about the contract for the...um, event we catered for you last Saturday. Because of the, uh, circumstances we were, of course, more than willing to accommodate your guests for the duration of the party, but unfortunately that duration did exceed the time we were contractually obligated to provide for our services. We do follow a pretty strict policy regarding overtime on catered events, and I was hoping I could speak to you about that if you're available.... Oh, really? Well, no, no, that's completely fine, I understand.... No, no, it's no trouble at all.... Well, I appreciate that.... Yes, I understand.... That sounds great. Sure…. Yes…. Okay.... Great! See you then."

He hung up with a pleased look on his face, preening out of vindication for the success of the phone call. "See, what did I tell you? Men honor their contracts."

"He's going to send the check?" Mimi asked, distracted by the news that he had gotten the client to settle the bill, and with seemingly little protest. 

Daisuke grinned evilly. "Nope. Apparently his office is only a couple blocks from here, so he's going to come over in person after work."

Mimi blinked slowly, stunned. "But you won't be here then. You're doing a walk-through consultation for next week's event, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am," he said smugly, his grin impossible to contain, "because you didn't want to do that either. See what happens when you're too chicken to talk to clients?"

Mimi glowered, cursing under her breath, and furrowed her brows worriedly. "What if he doesn't want to pay? What if he's coming here to argue about the fees? What if he makes a scene? "

"Stop acting like you don't know how to make scenes yourself," said Daisuke in his best sing-song voice as he glided across the room into the kitchens, thoroughly pleased with himself for ambushing her so perfectly with this real-world learning experience.

Mimi remained irritated and annoyed all day, repeatedly trying her best to get Daisuke to swap with her, though she wasn't particularly keen on doing a consultation either. It wasn't as though Mimi was not a social person. She enjoyed attention and liked talking to people. She loved entertaining; why else would she open a business built solely around the idea of professional culinary entertainment?  But clients weren't people.  Clients were sources of stress, demanding and impatient with a bizarre list of preferences that meant nothing but unfair amounts of additional work for her and her staff. Clients sucked the fun right out of social gatherings, and they were worse when it came to finances. She purposely let Daisuke handle consultations chiefly because those were the conversations that always meant a heckling or two over prices and fees. She preferred the menu and tasting meetings, but sometimes even those could be another headache altogether.

Every now and then, Mimi found herself wondering if she was really meant to run a client-based, private business like a catering company, and if she would be happier in an actual restaurant, but there were benefits to the former, and she had no experience of the latter anyway. Besides, as Jou rightly told her, a restaurant had clients, too, and patrons were just as demanding and picky as those who hired her business now.

After a late lunch, Daisuke soon left with several boxes of samples for his consultation, but not before taking her aside, telling her the pep talk he used to get from his youth league football coach in the locker room, and giving her the kind of tight, reassuring hug that made her resentment with him disappear and her nerves settle. "You got this," he told her in all seriousness, his cheeky grin just a friendly reminder that he had her back, too, and always would.

Eventually, she reached the end of the work day, and Mimi said good-bye to the part-time assistants who had helped her roll out fondant and prep for a birthday party they were going to cater the next afternoon. It was a much more low-key affair compared to a wedding or special event, birthday parties, and they were often much smaller. It did not take much time for her assistants to finish their work, and she rewarded them by releasing them early. She closed the bakery kitchen, storing the materials she had been using, and decided to run through their ingredients inventory so she could send Daisuke to the farmer's market in the morning.

She was bending over to look at the bottom row of the open rack pantry when the bell chimed to indicate a visitor at the front desk. Mimi stood so quickly she had to give herself a few seconds to let the blood rush settle. She was looking out at the front door a little cross-eyed in her instability, and, unfortunately, he noticed.

For the second time in as many weeks, Taichi considered the caterer to be a little unhinged.

His tone was dry and quizzical, but in a cautiously amused way. "I thought it was just the tongue-sticking-out thing you did when you concentrated. That eye thing looks like it would hurt after a while."

Mimi forgot to be embarrassed, indignant. "I don't do either of those things!"

"You just were—,”

"You're here for the unpaid balance, is that right?" she interrupted smoothly, her irritation soothing her nervousness.

Taichi just grinned sheepishly, a little apologetic for teasing a stranger, though he would never admit so aloud. He curled his hands into the pockets of his work slacks and nodded. "Yeah, the name’s Yagami Taichi. I think I have to see someone named Daisuke?"

"No, you're here to see me," she said, the authority in her voice surprising even her. But she kept at the persona, setting her clipboard with the inventory list down on the steel table by the pantry and marching around the room open air room to where he stood at the front. She went straight to the computer at the desk, selecting his file and opening the contract. 

"I appreciate your patience in settling the account," he said suddenly, which took her by surprise.

She eyed him, eyebrow arched, and said nothing as he went on, "A lot of things had to be figured out, you know, after, and it's hard to keep track of things. I wasn't purposely avoiding you guys. Your staff was so great, keeping everyone fed that night, so I wouldn't do something like skip out on the bill." 

She felt her walls coming down, sympathy growing for him as he pulled out his wallet, taking a folded up blank check out and unbending the crease. "Just let me know how much the total is."

"Sure," she said more shortly than she meant to, but she was tongue-tied now, uncertain of how to respond to his friendly demeanor. Usually, late-paying clients were the farthest thing from friendly.

The file opened, and Mimi scrolled down to the end of the tallied column indicating the final amount. She hid her wince remarkably, masking it with a light cough. "Here you go," she said, turning the computer monitor. He leaned over the counter, and his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. 

"I'm sorry," he coughed, voice weak. "What's that?"

She let her finger drag slowly over the detailed lines of the bill, pausing at each one as she explained it, her tone lowering to barely over a nervous whisper. "This was the original total. This was was the surcharge for the extra hours serviced. This was the updated total. This was the interest we charged for each day you were late. And this last one is the final total." She let her words trail off as he stared at the screen. 

He continued staring at the figure for a minute, open-mouthed, as though he had never imagined there could that many numbers grouped together on a bill like this. Then he straightened, shoulders back. "Well, my own fault, I guess."

Mimi was unsure if he was suggesting it was his fault that he was late on the payment, or if it was his fault her company had been hired to cater and thus stuck him with the large bill. She hoped it was the former, but in her experience, even the best people tended to transform into sour grouches over money issues, and now she was wondering if the cheery demeanor was truly gone. She did not want to test the change, so she shifted on her feet awkwardly, hands behind her back. 

"I'm sorry," she offered after a hesitant moment, and he waved her apology aside.

"I said it was my fault, not yours. Business is business." Then he paused, looking at the computer screen with a frown. He scratched his head, nervous fingers gripping at his thick brown locks. “Now this is embarrassing, but do you guys have some kind of payment plan or anything?”

She hesitated, knowing the answer and, more importantly, what Daisuke would say, but the worried way his brows knit together, his darkening eyes, and the twitch at the corner of his mouth told her that he wasn’t lying about his situation, that he was earnest about the circumstances.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked after a moment.

Taichi continued absent-mindedly playing with his hair as he thought aloud. “I’ve got a couple other bills to settle, too, and it’s getting pretty tight. I definitely will be able to pay,” he added after a brief pause, his eyes darting to her face. “I just might need a little time. I can probably give you half now, and half later. Would that be okay?”

She could hear Daisuke’s thundering voice screeching a “Be firm!” and a “Don’t let clients walk over you!” and a “The customer is not always right!” in her ears, but all she saw was Taichi’s wide brown eyes before her.

So Mimi nodded. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pulled up into a charming smile and he grinned. “That would be so great, really. Thank you so much; you have no idea how much this will help me out.”

She felt the blush warm her cheeks, and she became flustered, anxious to finish up this under the table deal before her sous chef could come back from the consultation and found out what she had done. Ducking her head away so Taichi wouldn’t see her red face, she grabbed a pen from the drawer under the table and handed it to him. He bent over the desk, scrawling out the new figure on the check and signing his name with a flourish. He slid the completed slip over to her when it was done, but did not remove his hand even when she placed her own on the other end.

“Do me a favor though?” he asked. “Don’t cash this right away, all right? Give me a couple weeks.”

Her thin eyebrow arched again, curious, and he shrugged, shaking his head. “I’d advise you not to get left at the altar. What you really get stuck with is a shit ton of bills. All that broken heart business is really preferable to financial debt, let me tell you,” he added jokingly, but her smile faded.

It was the first time he had brought up the subject of the event, even though that was the event’s bill they were working to settle now. She became uncomfortable, uncertain how to deal with a stranger confessing something so personal, and she considered him carefully. He was dressed for work with a clean light blue button-up tucked into grey trousers, complimenting the dark tan of his skin and the deep brown of his eyes. He looked healthy and relatively unbothered by recent events, which Mimi found astonishing, and the fact that he was still jesting about it peaked her morbid curiosity.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, sure," he said cheerfully, but she was not willing to believe it. He seemed to sense that she hadn't bought his display of calm happiness, and he relaxed his shoulders, slouching as he glanced about the room and admitted something deep and dark. "Well, I'm hungry, I guess, but besides that—,”

And she sprung into action. Cooking was the only thing she knew how to do when everything else went wrong, and her pacifistic instincts took over, utilizing her guilt in forcing him to fork over such a large fee—even if it was contractually deserved—to make up for putting her business first. "I was going to make myself something to eat. Do you want to stay?"

He watched her make her way back to the pantry where she had left her clipboard, picking up a basket of vegetables from one of the shelves and carrying it to a steel table. 

"Wait, really?"

The astonished tone of his voice flustered her a little, but she had set her mind and she would stick with her decision. "I always think a good meal makes anyone feel better."

"Do you always eat at work?"

Mimi shrugged, pulling out bowls and pans from below one of the tables that ended in a stove range. "Usually when my boyfriend is on-call at nights, I will. Can you hand me those spaghetti noodles?" 

He obeyed, handing her the package. She pointed to the cabinets underneath the counter. "Thanks. Can you rinse and fill up that pot with water? And then can you peel this garlic?"

Her requests had, by that point, stopped sounding like favors and more like commands, and he had the distinct impression that she was a rather bossy cook, which amused him. "I guess this is because you figured out I can't pay for the meal, right? Making me earn my keep with manual labor instead?" he joked, having more difficulty in peeling the leaves off the garlic clove than the average human being likely would. 

Her eyes rested on the haphazard way his fingers were ripping the garlic apart. "Something like that."

Taichi saw her looking at him massacre the poor clove and he rolled his eyes. "All right, you wanna show me how to do this the right way before your mouth gets stuck forever in that ugly grimace?"

"Like I could ever look bad," she dismissed at once, then laughed, teaching him the proper way to dice garlic, fry onions, peel potatoes, and cook pasta to the perfect al dente consistency. They didn't talk about anything besides cooking, with him asking questions and popping wisecracks at each mistake he made, and her admonishing him to pay more attention to what was on the stove or otherwise burn their dinner. She did not bring up the wedding again. He only alluded to it once more, when he mentioned his little sister Hikari, the woman in pink, in a story he told her of the time his mother had fed them under-cooked noodles and Hikari had thrown it up over the balcony of their ten-story apartment building. She was laughing about this particular tale when the door chime rang again, and they both glanced up, giggling, and saw Daisuke enter.

He froze where he stood, staring at the two of them with confusion. 

"Oh, Daisuke!" she greeted warmly. "Welcome back! Want to stay for dinner, too?"

“Ah, so you’re Daisuke,” said Taichi, waving a soapy hand from the sink where he was scrubbing pots. “How was the consultation?”

He stared at the brown-haired man in disbelief, a surreal look on his dumbfounded face, and Mimi quickly wiped her hands on the front of her apron, excusing herself to rush up to the front of the room and take Daisuke aside. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to him, out of Taichi’s earshot. “Everything’s fine. I settled it, just like you said. He’s just staying for dinner.”

“Clients don’t stay for dinner, Mimi,” said Daisuke slowly, as though he were speaking an amnesic child version of his boss. “They come. They pay. They leave.”

“I was being nice,” she said, a little cross that he didn’t seem to share her compassion for poor souls. “Spread the karma, Daisuke. Do something good for someone, and you get good things back.”

“You really believe that,” he said, sounding more like a statement than a question.

She grasped his hand, tugging on it. “Come on. I made your favorite.”

His expression was reluctant, but the growl of his stomach was perfectly timed. Mimi grinned to herself as Daisuke sighed loudly, following her back to the kitchen table.  _ Karma. _


	4. Lighten up the atmosphere

He answered the buzzer of the intercom on the fifth time, stumbling over the rug at the front door as he skidded to a halt. He slammed his palm onto the receiver, “’Kari, is that you?”

“Yes! Can I come up?”

“It’s open,” Taichi said, hitting the right button. He heard the click of the gated lobby door sound just as the intercom turned off, and he sighed, stepping back.

His gaze quickly scanned the apartment, searching for anything incriminating to hide. It was difficult to find anything in the mess, and he decided to bank on the fact that his sister would be too disgusted by his lazy habits to pay close attention to the abnormally high number of beer cans and junk food wrappers littering the floor. On second thought, he started kicking some of these items under larger items, such as the dirty clothes, couch cushions, and takeout boxes that had erected small cluttered colonies all over the floor, claiming territory throughout the apartment.

He grimaced, scowling at his lack of neatness, then put on his best smile and threw open the door.

Yagami Hikari had come straight from work. Taichi knew this because his sister’s hair had been pulled back into a tiny, tight ponytail, her once crisp blouse had lots of wrinkles and a few new suspicious-looking stains around the cuffs and collar, and there was paint all over her hands, plus a little green dollop on her chin.

He chuckled, reaching towards her to wipe the flecks of dried paint from her face. “Green’s not your color.”

Hikari smiled, her brown eyes lighting up in spite of her obvious exhaustion. She set her knapsack on the floor by the door and hugged him tightly, kissing his cheek. “I know I’m really late; I’m so sorry. We caught one of the kids eating paint and it turned into this whole ordeal with the parents.”

“Didn’t you used to eat paint?”

“No, that was you,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“And look how I turned out! Tell the parents their kid will be fine.”

“That should comfort them.” She giggled, gaze lingered on the stack of beer cans along the window sill across the room. “As for this mess though….”

He waved a finger at her warningly. “Don’t start. It looks worse than it actually is.”

“But you look good.” Her voice was soft this time, and her eyes searched his face carefully. “You do, Taichi.”

He immediately looked away from her, avoiding the way she seemed to see right through him.

“I feel good,” he said cheerfully.

She nodded, stepping further into the room. She made her way to the couch but stopped before she sat down, peering at the upturned cushions as though they might combust if touched. Taichi leapt forward, straightening the cushions for her, smoothing the wrinkled cloth and picking out the scraps of paper napkins and magazines that were stuck in the cracks of the sofa. She kept her smile small though she wanted to laugh at his earnestness in trying to make such a biohazard presentable, accepting the small clean spot he managed to finally clear for her. She smoothed her navy skirt over her knees, patting the spot beside her.

But Taichi did not take it, knowing what would happen if he did. She’d hold his hand, or try to hug him, and then the conversation would turn in the exact direction it always did. He was desperate to avoid this, so he kept standing, and her smile faded when she realized the way he pretended to be fine.

“How is work?” she asked, changing the subject.

He was relieved for the conversation, obliging her as he continued walking around the living room, picking up trash and stuffing it into a plastic bag he found in the kitchen. “It’s not so bad. Lots of meetings. I get overtime for it though, which is nice. Koushiro and I found this new Taiwanese restaurant a couple streets over that has the best lunch combo. You should come by some time; we’ll take you.”

“That sounds nice,” she smiled genuinely. “How is Koushiro?”

“The same. Nothing to report.”

Hikari frowned a little at the term, not wanting to make it seem like this was an interrogation. She realized what was making it appear that way, so she quickly reassured him, “I haven’t talked to Mom since last week, you know. School is really busy with the start of the school year.”

Taichi rolled his eyes. “She keeps calling me. It’s not every day anymore, but I started letting it go to voicemail. It’s getting annoying.”

She knew better than to try to explain their mother’s worry, so she let the matter drop, watching him clear off the oval coffee table in the middle of the room.

It was strange to be here, even though she had been back many times since it happened. It was not as though the apartment felt empty or neglected, despite the state it seemed to be in perpetually these days. No, it was the fact that he was here, living in a shell of a former life, and pretending he wasn’t.

Hikari’s parents, Sora, and even Yamato wanted Taichi to move out, to find somewhere new, but she knew her older brother was too stubborn to let the world see how it affected him. That would the ultimate sin in Taichi’s eyes, to give in and bend to the will of how you were supposed to deal with difficulty. Taichi was doing this all this way, which Hikari was prepared for. What she was not prepared for, however, was the way he insisted on doing it all alone.

Well, that wasn’t completely true.

“Anyway, I know I’m a late, but I’m still up for getting dinner if you are,” she said, putting on her brightest smile for him.

He immediately looked apologetic, conflicted as he bit his lip. “Yeah, about that—I kind of told Daisuke I’d go with him to see one of his favorite bands perform tonight. Mimi was going to come, too, but her boyfriend got the night off from the hospital for the first time in weeks, and Daisuke doesn’t want to go by himself.” He paused in the excessive explanation, hesitant. “Can I get a rain check?”

Hikari did not let disappointment reach her eyes. She nodded. “Sure, no problem. I’m pretty tired, to be honest.”

It was true, but not true enough. She had been waiting all week for their Friday night dinner, something they used to do a lot more before he had gotten engaged. This was supposed to have been the first time they’d have it again in over a year, but she suspected she was the only one to remember that detail. She couldn’t fault him for this. Taichi was already hopelessly clueless about most things, but in the past six weeks, he’d become even more absent-minded, distracted, and hard to pin down.

She brought it up casually, careful with her words. “You’ve been spending a lot of time over there.”

“Over where?”

“The caterer’s.”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” he shrugged. “They’re both fun, easy-going. I like talking to them.”

“You can talk to us, too. You know that right? We’re your friends, too, Taichi. We’re here for you. We’re not going anywhere.”

Taichi did not look at her, face turned away. “I know.”

Hikari bit her lip, brow creased on her pretty face. “You can always tell me or Sora or Yamato or Mom anything, any time you want to talk about—,”

“I said, I know,” he interrupted, voice sharp.

She immediately closed her mouth, hands folded in her lap, blinking quickly.

He put the trash bag down and came to sit next to her at last, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice like that.”

She nodded, lip trembling into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay.”

He rubbed his face, scratching his ear with a half-hearted shrug. “I’m not pushing you guys away. I’m just looking for normal. Is that okay?”

“Of course, it is,” she breathed, surprised that he would ask her something like that.

He smiled at her, knocking his shoulder into hers. “Thanks for coming to see me, though. I like it when you do.”

“It’s mostly to make sure you clean up. I know you only do when you know I’m coming over,” she pointed out wisely, and he winced sheepishly, wrinkling his nose.

Hikari stood, laughing, and stretched her arms. “You’re off the hook early this time, though, lucky you. Call me later?”

“Absolutely,” he promised, kissing the top of her head. “Get home safe.”

He saw her off, giving her a quick embrace before waving her out the door. As soon as she was gone, he dove for his bedroom, rushing as he glanced at the clock. Cursing at the little time he had left, he ditched the idea of a shower and only changed his clothes, running the last of bit of the product he had left through his hair to make it look as though he had spent more than a few seconds getting ready to go to a nightclub. He glowered at his reflection in the mirror, displeased with both his tired-looking appearance in general and the fact that he had no time to make himself more presentable, then he became annoyed that he would even care so much about any of it. Muttering to himself admonishingly, he grabbed his keys, pocketed his wallet, and unplugged the cell phone from its charger on the wall.

He stared at the apartment, secretly glad no one ever besides his family had to look at it in this state, then resolved to make more of an effort to act like an adult in the morning. No, he corrected himself resolutely. Not just an adult. A bachelor.

Shaking his head of the thought quickly, he forced himself out the door.

The nightclub was quite far from his apartment, and the directions he had noted down from himself only got him more lost. It took him more than forty minutes to reach the right intersection, switching train lines three times just to make it, and when he turned the corner, he was relieved to see the blinking neon name on the side of a grungy brick wall. Near the middle of the line at the door was Daisuke, who looked peeved. He wore a black T-shirt over dark jeans, a white graphic printed onto the front. Taichi squeezed past a few disgruntled patrons to reach Daisuke, who exclaimed when he saw him, “Where have you been? You’re over an hour late!”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just anxious to get inside before the other groupies do,” explained a familiar voice, and from behind Daisuke emerged an amused Mimi. She had on sheer black tights and a jeans skirt, paired with open-toed sandals and layered, different colored tanks. It was strange to see her not wearing her apron, but Taichi still grinned when he saw her, pleased to find she had made it after all.

“I thought you were busy tonight?”

“Something came up,” she said with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest. “Something always comes up.”

“Yes, all those pesky patients showing up to hospitals with diseases and accidents,” muttered Daisuke distractedly. “How rude of them.”

Mimi smacked him in the shoulder and he winced. “I meant something personal came up,” she snapped at him, “ _not_  that it’s any of your business.”

“Everything okay?” asked Taichi.

She smiled, appreciating the fact that he cared enough to check, then shot Daisuke a glare for not doing the same. “Oh, I’m sure it is. Jou’s brother just came into town, and he sees his family even less than he sees me so I decided to come here instead.”

Daisuke scoffed, offended. “Come here instead?” he repeated, mimicking her soft voice perfectly. “You should have brought them all over. They’re going to miss out on the greatest musical performance in existence!”

Mimi rolled her eyes dramatically, pursing her full lips.

The doors opened, and Daisuke started bouncing on the balls of his feet with an eagerness that made Taichi wish the younger man would at least try to appear less conspicuous in his adoration. He exchanged looks with Mimi, whose eyebrow was raised amusedly. He fell back so he could walk next to her, leaning in to lower his voice so Daisuke wouldn’t hear him. “What’s this band again?”

Mimi shrugged, whispering back, “No idea. Every month, Daisuke discovers another band that he says is going to be the next best thing.”

“Well, it can’t be that bad, can it?”

Later, Taichi would come to regret those words with a deep and personal vengeance.

They passed through the dirty entrance of the run-down club—which should have been Taichi’s first clue—and descended the sticky stairs to the basement of the building—which should have been the second hint. The stairs led to a dark, dimly lit crowded bar, which opened into a cramped dance floor. At the front was a large, raised platform on which was assembled microphones, speakers, amplifiers, and a massive drum set. Pre-recorded metal music was blaring from the speakers as the stage waited for the featured musicians to take their places, the bass pounding through the walls with incredible force. Posters, stickers, and graffiti covered all available surfaces, and Taichi felt his sense of smell ambushed by the strong stench of cigarette smoke and other possibly illegal substances.

Daisuke gestured for the two to follow him to the front of the crowd, staking out prime real estate right at the edge of the stage. He pointed at the spot next to him, which Taichi took reluctantly, uncomfortable. Daisuke leaned into to shout into his ear, “You have to be near the speakers! If you aren’t feeling the music through your very pores, you’re not listening to it the right way! Isn’t this great?” Taichi gave him the thumbs-up, masking his horror of the thoroughly unattractive setting, wondering if this chaos was preferable to the mess of his own apartment.

The crowded club burst into wild cheers as the band finally emerged from a dark corner, taking the stage. The drummer took his seat, wearing only black cargo shorts, while the bassist and electric guitarist both took spots on either side of him. The keyboardist arrived with the lead singer, who was dressed in a black leather vest and skinny jeans so tight that Taichi winced for him.

The man held up his hand silently, and the screams of the crowd stopped at once, a hush falling over the horde. “This,” he said slowly, voice barely over a whisper into the microphone, “is for the fans.”

Another scream rippled through the assembled crowd, and the musicians took their positions as the vocalist closed his eyes, held his breath—and screamed.

The sound was deafening. The beat of the drums ripped through Taichi’s ears, sending him staggering back from the unexpected shock, colliding into the group of fans behind him. Before he could get a hold of himself, the guitars began to play, and the screeching chords made his skin crawl, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. He desperately tried to keep from clamping his hands over his ears, struggling to inch away from the stage and the source of the horrific cacophony of screeching notes coming from the singer’s wide open mouth.

At once, the crowd started dancing, jumping up and down where they stood to the beat of the song—though Taichi swore there was no comprehensible beat to be found in the clash of sounds—and he was jostled around, knocking violently into a sea of sweaty bodies. For a full five minutes, he was trapped in this nightmarish sea, his sense of hearing completely shot, hands and elbows slapping his face so many times that he thought for second that his jaw had been dislocated. He frantically fought back each time he was hit or shoved in the mosh pit, trying to free himself from the clutches of this musical insanity, and for the briefest of seconds, Mimi’s terrified face—wearing an expression he thought thoroughly matched his own—swam before him before disappearing again into the thrashing crowd.

Taichi dove for her, grabbed what turned out to be her elbow, and pulled her back away from the stage. They were caught at the edge of the thickest section of the crowd, trapped but at least farther from the stage and the most dedicated, enthusiastic fans, including Daisuke, who was screaming along right back to the lead singer and waving like a madman.

Taichi wanted nothing better than to escape from this nightclub hell, or at least recover his hearing, but all around him was the sounds of metal crashing and people screaming. So he shook Mimi by the shoulder to get her to look at him, pointing at the door to the stairs that led back up to the street.

“Do you want to go out and get orientated for a minute?” he shouted at her.

Her face was confused. " _What?_ " she mouthed.

He repeated himself, louder, straining his already hoarse voice, " _Do you want to go outside?_ "

" _What did you say?_ " she screamed. 

This time, he shouted back, as loud as he could, " _I'm going outside! This music is terrible!_ " at the exact moment that the song ended.

Everything fell silent, and Taichi was acutely aware of the way all eyes turned on him at once, sweaty heads swiveling towards the direction where they stood. The crowd's judgmental faces accosted him, and he felt the heat rising under the collar of his shirt. His tongue turned to ash in his mouth as Mimi stared back at him with wide eyes, face pale. Neither of them moved, nor did anyone else in the club. His eyes darted into the silent crowd and locked onto Daisuke, who looked murderous, glaring at him from his key spot still at the center of the mosh pit where only the most dedicated fans were allowed.

At last, the lead singer leaned into the microphone and said angrily, "Well, fuck you, too, man."

The crowd erupted, defending the musicians on the stage with a violent fierceness.

Taichi’s dumbstruck embarrassment immediately disappeared, and he opened his mouth to retaliate to the insult with more of his own. Before he could, however, Mimi's small hand found his arm, frantically tugging him through the crowd that parted for them as though they were lepers. Ducking the jeering faces, he allowed her to lead him up the grungy stairs and out onto the street where she finally let go.

They looked at each other for another minute, both mortified about the experience they had just endured—and then she burst into uncontrollable giggles, bending over and clutching her stomach. He was stunned by the sudden reaction, so unlike the first instinctual response she had had, and stared at her, amazed. Her tiny body was shuddering with waves of laughter, and she could barely look at him, her face red.

"It was terrible music," he insisted, and that just made her howl harder. “It’s not funny!”

“Then why can’t I stop laughing?” she demanded through heavy giggling gasps for air, a stitch in her side.

“Was I wrong to call them out for their assault on musical talent?”

She couldn’t speak, still laughing, tears of mirth pooling in the corners of her eyes.

So he went on ranting. “It’s just shitty music! That is a terrible band! The way they play—I mean, people were there to hear a good show, and bands have the obligation to give the people what they want! It’s about respecting the bond between the performer and the audience! You’re supposed to give back the trust people give you, what they waited for all their lives, counting on you to be there, to keep your promises, to not leave people wondering where you are or what you—,” and suddenly he stopped himself, wide-eyed.

Her smile was long gone, fading as soon as his unexpected words first changed their tone. The laughter was gone from her hazel eyes, too, and she stood still before him, locking onto his stunned gaze. Her expression was somber and passive, and the look on her face then was the kind people gave to people they feel sorry for, and that was the kind he hated seeing more than anything else. He had already seen it enough on Hikari’s face, just a few hours earlier in his own apartment. He didn’t want to see it on her face, too. The whole point of this was that she didn’t look at him like that, that he had people he could be normal with who wouldn’t ask him about his feelings or try to make him talk. But she was looking at him the way everyone else did, and that was the worst part.

So he turned away from her, rubbing his face with the back of his hand, furious with himself most of all.

Her hand caught his, and her small fingers curled around his own with a calming tenderness that stilled his anger.

He did not look at her, his back still turned away, nor did she pull his arm to make him face her. She let him be, let him take his time, and it was only a minute later that his heartbeat settled to its regular pace and the lump in his throat finally disappeared.

"I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. He stopped, shaking his head slowly. “Six weeks ago, I did not expect to have my sense of hearing be assassinated in a dingy nightclub. Six weeks ago, I was ready for boring nights-in watching stupid movies in bed, going for brunch on the weekends at the farmer’s market, always having a ‘plus one’ to work dinners, buying throw pillows,”—here he paused—“ _using_  throw pillows.”

Mimi made her voice as kind as possible as she pointed out, “I think there’s a bit more to being married than finally getting to decorate with throw pillows.”

She had meant to make him smile, and it worked, for a little while. But just as quickly as the trembling smirk appeared did it fade, and in the next moment he was shaking, and this time he couldn’t stop. His fingers tightened around hers, holding on to her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

He whispered, “What do you do when normal is too hard? What do you do when you don’t want to move on?”

She did not respond, as though she knew he did not want her to, that there was nothing you could say to a heart this lonely. She only stood there and held his hand, her touch soft and undemanding, her thumb gently stroking the skin of his palm in slow, soothing movements.

“There you assholes are!” growled an angry voice behind them.

Startled, Mimi let go of Taichi’s hand at once, and the latter took an instinctive step back, the tan of his skin masking the blush in his cheeks. Before he could realize what was happening, Daisuke had stalked angrily over towards them and jabbed a stubby finger at Taichi’s chest so hard that the man grunted, speechless.

“I can’t believe you would embarrass me like that,” he said, voice pained and furious. “Friends don’t ruin each other’s chances to become friends with someone better!”

Mimi rolled her eyes. “You really want to be friends with a band like that? They’re really not that great, Daisuke.”

“This blasphemy!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air with an exaggerated flourish. “You know how much I had to finagle to get us those tickets in the first place? They’re never going to let me back in to see them now!”

“There are better bands out there anyway! Who cares about those wannabe losers?”

“Don’t tell me who to love!”

 _“Daisuke_ ! _”_

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Taichi before the pair’s tempers became too heated. His grin spread slowly across his face, eyebrows creased slyly. “Are you saying we’re friends?”

Mimi’s eyes widened. She exchanged knowing looks with Taichi, who winked at her, and she hid her grin just as Daisuke’s glare found her face. She fixed her expression into one of innocent questioning. “But I thought you said clients couldn’t be friends?”

Taichi feigned ecstatic delight. “You mean after all these long days, wishing and praying and hoping, I’m finally getting out of the dreaded just-a-client circle?”

“I think you are,” declared Mimi victoriously.

Daisuke opened his mouth, then shut it quickly, gritting his teeth.

In the younger man’s confusion, Taichi’s hand darted out, grabbing Daisuke’s. “So how should we celebrate our newfound friendship?”

“Photobooth pictures?” offered Mimi.

“A large soda with three straws?” countered Taichi.

“Friendship bracelets?”

“Blood pact?”

“Sleepover?”

“Frolicking in a field?”

Daisuke spoke at last, terrified. “You’re both insane.”

“Frolicking, it is,” Taichi declared, and Mimi swooped in on Daisuke’s other side, looping her arms around his. She squeezed his muscled forearm, burying her cheek in the curve of his shoulder, while Taichi continued yanking on Daisuke’s other hand with maniacal levels of enthusiasm.

Daisuke groaned, trying to pry their fingers off of him, but they wouldn’t budge. “Let me go, you music-hating freaks!” he shouted over their laughter, alarming the bystanders outside the club. But no matter how violently Daisuke tried to shake them off, they held on, latching onto him like overly affectionate leeches, dragging him kicking and hollering between them until, in the end, even he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.


	5. Keep me warm inside our bed

“Strawberry.”

The ice cream scooper moved to the pink container.

“No. Chocolate.”

The handle continued to the left side and stopped at the next tub.

“Wait. Strawberry.”

It returned slowly to the pink, lingering uncertainly. And, sure enough, no sooner did the large metal spoon begin to descend into the container did the next interruption sound:

“Chocolate. Definitely chocolate.”

The attendant appeared ready to give up on life. “Are you sure?” he deadpanned in a soulless voice.

Mimi tapped a thin finger to her bottom lip, pretty eyes narrowed to a sliver of hazel. “…No.”

Jou pulled out his wallet, extracting two crisp bills. “We’ll take one cone of each, please.”

“Two scoops a piece,” instructed Mimi, flashing a charming smile at the disgruntled ice cream parlor attendant. She paused, “Wait, no—I’d like one scoop of the chocolate and two of the strawberry, but I’d like the chocolate one to have—actually, could you make that three and have one cone mixed?”

Jou put another larger bill on the glass counter. His eyes met the attendant’s glare, and he offered the man a small, empathetic smile. “I appreciate this.”

The couple left the store a few moments later, wallet considerably lighter as hands balanced three ice cream cones. Mimi slurped happily between the strawberry and chocolate in either hand, nose crinkling the way it did when she was perfectly content.

“Happy now?” Jou asked her, careful not to spill the mixed strawberry and chocolate cone he was holding onto for her.

“Very,” she chirped.

They stopped at a bench a few blocks away so Mimi could devote all of her concentration to eating, instead of wasting precious energy on walking as well. Jou held whichever of the three cones she was not working through, leaning back and raising his face to the warm summer sun on his cheeks.

“It’s always nice when it doesn’t rain on my days off.”

“You could always take more days off,” she pointed out, licking her way around the chocolate.

“It doesn’t work that way in hospitals,” he said. “We all pitch in on these rotating schedules. If I asked for time off, it would just go to someone else. It would be unfair to change things without good reason. I couldn’t let the rest of the team down.”

Mimi paused to smile at his kindness. “Sometimes I think you’re too good for me.”

He raised an eyebrow, surprised, adjusting his glasses. “Nothing’s too good for you, Mimi.”

She rolled her eyes. “See? Even your compliments are too good.”

“I’m just being honest,” he shrugged, pleased just the same when she laughed again. She had the most infectious laugh. It spread all through her, from the curl of her fingertips to the brightness of her eyes, making her glow in this ethereal way. He didn’t think she ever looked more beautiful than she did when she laughed.

“Well, then,” she said after a minute of giggles, “what would Dr. Kido like to do for the rest of his day off, honestly?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“I mean it. I’m happy with anything today. We could even sit right here on the bench all afternoon, but I know you’d get bored, so tell me what you want to do and we’ll do that. That’s what I want.”

She smiled again at his words, but this time she felt uncomfortable, and it confused her. Shaking the feeling away, she finished off the last of the chocolate ice cream cone and moved onto the strawberry flavor. “How about the bookstore?”

“Sounds fine. Are you looking for something specific?”

She hesitated, unsure, then admitted, “Well, the new Red Guide just came out. I’d be curious to see what restaurants made it this year.”

“You should pick one to go to for your birthday,” he suggested.

She nodded, “I was thinking the same. But I also thought I’d see if there were any restaurants around here that I could visit during the low season.”

“To eat?”

“To learn,” she said. Her voice was suddenly quite small, and she was staring straight into the hole she had made with her tongue in the middle of the strawberry scoop, eyeing the ice cream as though it had been the one confessing her intentions rather than she herself.

His frown was light on his face, and he leaned into her. “Are you embarrassed to be telling me this?”

She immediately shook her head, insistent. “No, not embarrassed. It’s just… it’s not like it’s a sure thing. It’s probably never going to happen. I was gonna wait to tell you until I found a chef I could learn from, because I didn’t want….” She stopped talking, shifting her knees awkwardly, and stuffed her mouth with the rest of the ice cream cone so she couldn’t continue.

Jou sighed, sitting back on the bench, lowering his hands to his lap, careful not to let the mixed cone slip in his fingers. “I wish you would tell me. You know I support you.”

She nodded, mumbling something incomprehensible as she swallowed. “I know,” she said softly, unable to return his gaze.  _ That’s the problem. _

“Kido? Kido Jou?”

They both glanced down the footpath, and the young medical resident broke into a wide, surprised smile, while Mimi gave a shocked start, spilling the strawberry scoop onto her lap. She stifled a cry, averting her eyes from the approaching pair and searching her purse for a tissue to salvage her dress, while Jou rose from the bench, unaware of her predicament for the moment.

Yamato reached them first, holding out a hand, which Jou shook warmly. “How long has it been?”

“It has to be at least six years,” exclaimed Jou, grinning. “You look exactly the same.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?” chuckled Yamato, and Jou sputtered an incoherent protest, flustered, which his former college classmate waved off with a smile. He was wearing gym clothes, his hair slightly damp and sticky against the sweaty skin of his forehead. Then he remembered his manners, gesturing at the man beside him, likewise dressed for a friendly pick-up game and carrying a basketball under his arm. “This is Yagami Taichi, a good friend of my family’s. Taichi, this is Jou. We went to college together.”

But Taichi neither responded nor accepted the handshake Jou offered him, his attention diverted elsewhere. Jou followed the man’s gaze, spying at last the puddle of melting ice cream all over his girlfriend’s clothes.

“Mimi, your dress!” He pulled out a handkerchief, bending over her, but she hastily pushed him back, cheeks pink.

“I’m fine,” she insisted weakly, face downturned, frustrated that she couldn’t stop blushing. She finally found a pack of tissues in her purse, rubbing the fragile paper hard against the thin cloth of her dress. If anything, it made the stain worse, and she stared at the mess in dismay.

“I’ll get you some water,” said Jou, already scanning the small park.

“Wait, no, it’s really not a—,”

“We passed a water fountain a few yards back,” said Yamato, squinting down the small dirt road that curved around and through the park. He pointed a block of concrete restrooms, “In there I think.”

“I’ll be right back.” He started to hand her the mixed strawberry and chocolate ice cream cone, but she jumped to her feet, frustrated.

“I’ll go,” she said, pushing the cone back at him, “it’s my dress.”

Jou heard the frustration in her voice and glanced at her, forehead creased, but that did nothing to assuage her nerves. She was not certain why she was becoming irritable, but the confusion only made her more so, and she actively avoided everyone’s gazes. Taking the handkerchief he still held outstretched to her, she marched off down the path, leaving the sounds of men’s voices talking lowly amongst each other behind her.

_ Men _ , she thought, pressing the knob on the side of the water fountain and soaking the handkerchief. “He always does this,” she complained under her breath.

“Yeah, I hate that considerate shit,” said a sarcastic voice, but Mimi did not look up this time.

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped, sopping up the last of the water in the shallow basin of the fountain, then dabbing at her dress.

Taichi shook his head in disapproval, stepping in front of her to unscrew the top of his plastic water bottle. He bent over the fountain, letting the water fill up inside the container slowly. “You know, what girls like you don’t understand is guys like us  _ want _  to take care of things.”

Her irritation only worsened. “Right, and taking care of her worked out well for you, didn’t it?”

Taichi’s brown eyes widened, head tilted to the side as he appraised her for a tense moment. “Okay, Mimi,” he said lowly, “you want to tell me why you’re being such a bitch today?”

She bristled at the name-calling, even if she regretted the underhanded insult she had thrown at him to deserve it the second it left her lips. She opened her mouth to apologize gruffly, or to snap another retort, but instead she blurted out through gritted teeth, “Jou’s perfect.”

“I think that’s been established,” said Taichi.

“Do you know what it’s like dating someone who’s that perfect?”

He tossed his head back. “Well, I’ve been told that I’m quite—,”

“It just makes you feel like nothing you do is good enough,” she said softly, and he stopped. She fingered the edge of the stain on her dress, halfheartedly dabbing at the dark, pink mess. “He has all these great plans for his life, and he works so hard for them. And what do I have?” She pinched the sides of her dress and tried to air dry her damp dress, shaking the cloth with little enthusiasm, expression miserable.

Taichi held his tongue, considering his response as he studied her carefully. 

Then he sighed, “Well, for one, you have terrible coordination. How difficult is it balance an ice cream cone? While sitting  _ down _ ?”

She pulled a face at him, the smirk drawing unbidden on her lips just the same.

“Secondly, you have your own life, your own dreams, your own ways. It doesn’t matter if it’s different than his, and the point isn’t to compare yourselves. I think if you tried talking to him, he’d say the same, too.”

She opened her mouth, surprised by his words, but she could find nothing to say. Ashamed, she returned her gaze to her dress, waving its hem in the air again, her actions soft and remorseful.

“And third, you have poor washing technique. Stand still.”

Her eyes snapped up and her jaw dropped as Taichi cupped the spout of the water fountain, narrowed his eyes as he took aim, and launched a spray of water so violently at her dress that it splattered against her entire front. She shrieked, stumbling back, and he shouted at her to stay where she was, relentless in his determination. She dropped the handkerchief, waving her hands to slap the water back at him—a ridiculously futile defensive strategy—and he dodged the droplets that flew back in his direction, falling dramatically short of actually reaching any portion of his body.

“Stop!” she cried, stepping out of range from the spout, and Taichi laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“Why, did I get the stain out?”

The coloring had indeed washed out, but Mimi refused to admit this, furious.

Taichi’s eyes glinted. “You know, don’t look half bad wet.”

She launched herself at the fountain, flicking water into his face with maniacal revenge. He sputtered, yelling, and their screeching reached across the park to the bench where Jou and Yamato were waiting. Jou straightened, eyeing a frantic Mimi with slight concern, but it was Yamato’s dismissive snort that distracted him. He glanced at the blond man lounging on the bench beside him, his blue eyes disinterested in the spectacle before them, balancing the basketball on his lap between lanky knees.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told Jou. “In his own obnoxious way, he’s just messing with her so she’ll stop worrying about her dress. He considers it fun to act like a childish ass.”

Jou relaxed after Yamato’s reassurance, watching the pair of them out of the corner of his eye. “Childlike or childish?”

“Childish,” insisted Yamato. “I think he’s gotten even more so after what happened. It’s easier to avoid having to face your life if you refuse to grow up.” Then he added with a hint of disapproval, “That’s not how adults deal with problems.”

Jou was thoughtful, considering his old friend’s words and the conversation they had had waiting on the bench before the splashing incident interrupted them. The coincidence of running into them in the park became even more so when Yamato recognized Mimi and explained the connection. It was Taichi who Mimi and Daisuke had taken a liking to over the past few months, and Jou was pleased at last to put a face to the oft-ridiculed name. But in spite of what Mimi had told hold him about Taichi’s situation, Jou wasn’t so sure it was truly hidden feelings that the man’s humorous nature was hiding. Even if it wasn’t the common way to deal with pain, did it make it the wrong way?

“Maybe not for some people,” he consented at last, “but others have a hard time talking about difficult situations. I know Mimi will first try avoiding an issue before facing it. We were actually just talking about something before you guys came, and I get the feeling she was glad to drop the conversation.”

“I guess I’m like that, too,” Yamato admitted, tilting his head back. His memory travelled back to familiar soft brown eyes and auburn hair, and he shook his head of the image, heartbeat quickening. “When she’s ready, she’ll talk about it.”

“I hope so.”

Yamato pressed forward, changing the subject to get Sora’s face out of his mind. “It’s really good to see you again. Takeru was playing with us this morning; he’s gonna be sorry he missed running into you.”

Jou smiled, remembering the younger man with a fond grin. “I would have liked to see him, too. Next day I have off from the hospital, I’ll give you a call.”

There was another panicked shout, and Jou glanced back to the public toilets to see Mimi grinding his wet handkerchief into Taichi’s ear, revenge won. She ducked a retaliatory swipe of his hand and ran back to them, laughing as she collapsed, thoroughly drenched, onto the bench by Jou’s other side. She held out her hand for the ice cream he was still holding for her, as a reward for winning the water fight. Jou chuckled, “You’re soaked through, and you want cold ice cream?”

“It’s going to melt!” she protested.

“Shouldn’t we give this to Taichi for helping you?”

Mimi sputtered, horrified. “Helping me?” she screeched, and Jou winced, just as Taichi arrived to likewise deride such a grossly untrue summary of events.

“I don’t like strawberry anyway,” said Taichi with disdain, causing Yamato to roll his eyes again.

“No one is offering you any.”

“Get your own,” said Mimi, taking the mixed cone before Jou could stop her and try to give it away again.

“Maybe I will,” warned Taichi stubbornly. Then he stopped, his eyes widening, and Yamato groaned.

“Are you seriously wanting one now? What are you, five?”

“Be right back,” he hollered, already striding off, “the mint chocolate chip is calling me.”

Mimi, who had opened her mouth to take a big gulp of her strawberry and chocolate, froze, eyes shining. Jou recognized the look right away and he couldn’t stop his smile. “You want another one, too?”

“Be right back,” she declared, quickly shoving the rest of the cone into her mouth and scrambling after Taichi, who refused to walk with her and quickened his pace over her protests.

“Simple minds think alike,” said Yamato dryly, sinking even lower on the bench as they settled back to wait.

Jou paused, eyebrow arched, and he demanded with feigned offense, “Are you calling my girlfriend simple?”

Yamato’s glowing blush turned his head into an unusual sort of blond-haired tomato, and he looked so mortified with himself that Jou almost felt bad for teasing. Almost.


	6. I got dreams of you all through my head

Takaishi Takeru did not expect his friend to remember their half-made plans for that morning, not after a night out. He did not hurry himself, thinking he’d wait for the apology email that usually accompanied their failed rendezvous attempts in the past. He leisurely rode the train to work, casually bought himself a take-out breakfast from the corner bakery, and slowly made his way up to his cramped, tiny office on the eleventh floor of the city’s newspaper building. He was met with the usual amount of post-it notes and reminders tacked to every inch of desk and wall space not already devoted to memos, deadlines, and articles, and he munched on the blueberry scone absentmindedly as he read through each one. Co-workers regularly interrupted his morning routine, and he was not the sort to deny himself chitchat at the workplace, however inane. Thus, it was well towards the lunch hour that Takeru even got around to listening to his phone messages, and the instant he pressed play for the first one, he immediately regretted waiting so long.

“Takaishi!” was all the message contained, but Takeru winced anyway, blue eyes pressed into thin slits as he glanced meagerly at the clock on the wall.

Okay, so he did remember.

Cursing, Takeru grabbed his wallet and jacket, leaping down the hallway to the elevator. He had enough forethought to choose a restaurant relatively close to work, and it was inside that he found him, sitting with his legs cramped up under a tiny table directly beside the door, clutching a half-cold cup of coffee, and eyeing the happiness in the other patrons' faces with a demonic resentment. 

After placing his order with the overworked barista, Takeru strode towards him, sliding into the chair opposite and flashing him an innocent grin. "Aren't you dapper in the mornings?"

"You're late," barked Taichi, face screwed up like a petulant toddler.

Takeru reached over to cuff his chin affectionately. "Just like a little angel."

"Oh, fuck off," and he supplied the rude hand gesture to cement his feelings exactly.

"What was it, whiskey?"

The older man winced, visibly shaken at the memory of the night before, and he rubbed his temples. Brown eyes narrowed, and he admitted after a moment of serious consideration. "No, I think it was the tequila."

"You know you and tequila don't mix." Takeru accepted the espresso a waiter carried to him, taking a little sip and cringing when it burned his tongue. He set the cup down quickly, sucking on his lip, lips pulled into a whimpering frown. 

"Oh, I know," said Taichi, rolling his eyes. "The hair on my leg finally grew back, by the way."

"You were begging me to do it."

"Do you always do what people beg of you?"

Crystal blue eyes winked slyly. "Depends on who's begging."

At that, Taichi laughed at last, relaxing for the first time since Takeru sat down. The younger man considered it a personal victory to have lightened his friend's mood, something he had never had a problem with in the years they had known each other. But he paid extra care these days to ensure he could make Taichi smile more often, whether or not Taichi knew. 

He took a minute then to study him carefully. The circles were deep under warm brown eyes, the slouch heavy in his shoulders. His hair was a bit messier than usual, but it was typically unkempt in the first place. Nothing stood out as anything worth reporting back to those more concerned than he, but Takeru thought he understood the mystery that was Yagami Taichi a little better than most. To hear Yamato talk about it, Taichi was being immature by refusing to engage in any serious conversation, and Hikari thought he wasn't allowing himself the opportunity to heal. Takeru recognized where each came from with these diagnoses, but he didn't see it that way. All he saw was a need for a friend and a good laugh. 

Well, that and another good thing that usually came with the right sort of friend, though Taichi hadn't given any indication of interest in that area just yet. Luckily for all involved, it just so happened that that was the one area in which Takeru fashioned himself as sort of an expert. He was perfectly content being Taichi's shaman through the world of dating again. This wasn't a decision he had told anyone really, especially not his brother or Taichi's sister, but in his experience, the best way to get over someone was get—

"—no idea why they're being so stubborn, do you?"

Takeru gave a start, lips pressed together ashamedly. "About what?"

"Yamato and Sora," said Taichi, annoyed at having to repeat himself. "The other day, I had Sora over for dinner, and when Yamato called up from the lobby, she got mad at me. She said I shouldn't try to ambush them like that, but she left before I could tell her that Yamato had no idea she'd be there, and I had no idea he was dropping by after work. They wouldn't even talk to each other."

Takeru wanted to point out the irony of Taichi complaining about someone else not opening up, but he thought better of it. He picked up the little spoon that came with his coffee and stirred what didn't even need stirring. He knew this, but he needed something to keep his guilty gaze distracted. "You know what they're like. They're private people."

Taichi was reading him like a book, the way he always had. He was obtusely honest about it, to Takeru's great annoyance. "Do you know why they broke up?"

"People want different things. They grow up, they change."

It was a bullshit answer, and Takeru did not bother trying to give it any substance. He stubbornly stuck to his story, the line he'd given repeatedly to others equally curious. But Taichi's curiosity was on an obsessive level sometimes, and if there was one lesson he had never learned, it was when to let things go.

"You do know," said Taichi definitively, and the silence confirmed it. "Is it really that bad? What did he—?"

Takeru protested at once, swooping to his brother's defense with rigid fierceness. "It's nothing like that. It's nothing at all," he added hastily when he saw the glint in the other man's eyes. "I mean, I know nothing."

"You shouldn't lie to your elders, Takeru."

Takeru snorted, amused, and scratched the back of his head as he leaned in his chair, legs spread lazily under the table. "Next time I meet one, I'll be sure to be more respectful."

"What, you don't respect me?" He puffed up his chest, straightening in his chair to assume an authoritative pose. 

The effect was lost completely on the younger blond, who blew on the his coffee, unmoved. "Not since Hikari and I dated in high school. You stopped being scary when I didn't have to impress you anymore."

"Fine," drawled Taichi surly. "And for the record, I never found you impressive."

"What about Willis? You think he's better than me?"

"By a mile. I can still make him cower if I stare at him long enough."

Takeru laughed, picturing the trio at Hikari's apartment, assembled around her polished oak coffee table, Taichi with his withering glare, Willis with his shifty discomfort, and Hikari with her face in her hands, praying for the torment to end. That was exactly how it had been when they were all still in high school, though Taichi had not yet perfected the older brother disapproving scowl at that point, so Takeru had been spared from the full force of it in that year he had been on the receiving end. He made a mental note to pass along some tips to Willis through Hikari, who had, after the right amount of time, become one of Takeru's closest friends since they parted ways. 

Taichi sighed, sitting back defeatedly in his chair. He poked at his coffee cup. "You really aren't going to tell me what happened between them?"

"If they're not going to, it's not my place to do it for them." He paused, rocking on the back two legs of the chair, then reminded him, "You'd do the same, you know that."

"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled. "It's just hard not being able to help. I like helping. They're my friends."

His mouth teased into a smug, knowing smile, which Taichi immediately wanted to smack right off his face. 

"Don't start," he warned.

"You don't think it's the same thing?"

"It's not."

"Taichi—,"

"I said, don't." 

Takeru was starting to lose his temper, letting his chair fall back on its four legs with a thud. "I think this is less about you wanting to help them than it is about you needing to distract yourself by doing everything else."

"If I want your opinion, I'll read your newspaper column."

"You're being a hypocrite."

"You want to know why I think Sora and Yamato won't talk to me about it?" he asked suddenly, expression masked with anger as he violently took up his coffee cup and swallowed a huge gulp. "It's because they think they shouldn't bother me with their problems when I've got my own, like their breakup is somehow going to make mine less important."

"That's ridiculous—,"

"Then explain to me why else my two best friends don't want to confide in me. It sucks, Takeru. It feels like hell to have people treating you like they have to censor what they tell you, just in case it reminds you of how much shittier your own life is.”

“No one is treating you with kid gloves—,”

“Yeah? When is the last time you called to ask me to coffee?” Taichi threw up his free hand exasperatedly. “When is the last time we ever drank coffee and  _ only _  coffee together?”

Takeru sipped slowly, unruffled by the outburst. “The last time the bar wasn’t open yet.”

“The point is, it’s pissing me off. I'm not so sensitive and unstable that they should feel like they can't tell me things. It's not like talking about their problems is going to make me forget I have my own, is it? It's not like she can leave again, can she?” Taichi set his cup down so hard on its saucer that the little plate nearly shattered. Several customers jumped in their seats, startled, and Takeru flinched, cringing at the sound. But Taichi heard none of it. His voice was cold, “I'm not stupid enough to think she took the best parts of me with her, but she took something. And I know she did. I am living with the aftermath, so I don't want people walking on eggshells around me because they think I am about to fall apart. You really think I don't know I'm half gone? I do know. I know I'm a shell. I know I'm empty.”

“ _ Hey _ .”

Takeru’s blue eyes had narrowed and, in his firm admonishment, he looked eerily similar to his older brother, too much for Taichi’s liking. He reached over and took Taichi’s hand, slamming it hard against the left side of the man’s chest, covering his hand to force Taichi to keep his there and understand what was underneath.

“Feel that? It’s still there. It’s still beating. You’re not empty yet.”

Taichi sat back as Takeru let go of him. He let his fingers absentmindedly trace over the heart buried underneath, feeling his breath quicken. It was true. It was still there. It still went on beating, though Taichi couldn’t understand why. Sometimes Taichi wanted nothing more for it to stop, for this all to be done with. He was tired of spending nights on the sofa because he still couldn’t sleep in their bed by himself; sick of putting on that smile in front of friends who were all too ready to find the sorrow underneath; and afraid to look at his phone whenever it rang, because no matter how many times it did, he knew it would never be the one name he wanted to see so badly he couldn’t breathe.

He just didn’t understand.

Was he really not worth an explanation, a chance, an apology?

Was he really not good enough?

Forcing himself out of the suffocating thoughts, he took a deep, steadying breath and let his anger fade. He joked, “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a thing for groping Yagami chests.”

The younger man shrugged nonchalantly, accepting the change in conversation more easily than others might, because he understood what it was like to be that afraid of his own heart. “I won’t deny it.”

“That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

“You brought it up first.”

“Watch it, Takaishi.”

The door opened, slamming sharply into the back of Taichi’s chair. He grunted, lurching forward, and the last sip of his drink spilled over the table as the cup and saucer overturned. Takeru dove for his own coffee, raising it into his hands to save it from the same fate. They both searched accusingly for the careless cause of the near accident—and they both froze.

“I’m so sorry,” said the woman, speaking with a lilting accent that rolled over her tongue like music. Blue eyes widened with genuine concern, and she dropped her chin apologetically, biting a full lip. “Are you all right?”

“...Huh?” breathed Taichi, dumbfounded, jaw hanging open idiotically.

In spite of the stupid way he gaped at her, the woman smiled kindly, shaking soft blonde curls away from a heart-shaped face. She winked, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Taichi watched her move to the counter, softly giving her order to the enchanted barista who was blushing under her gaze. He still had a hand over his chest, and he gripped his shirt, pointing to his heart and declaring in a low voice, “Takeru, I’m retracting my earlier statement. I’m feeling something.”

His friend had not once taken his eyes from the woman either. He leaned forward in his chair like he was hoping he could magic her towards him through sheer animal magnetism, if he could only focus his gaze hard enough. “I’m feeling something, too, and it’s not in my chest.”

Taichi kicked the younger man’s chair under the table, and Takeru yelped, struggling to keep his balance. “When did you grow up into such a pervert?”

“Probably around the time that Hikar—,”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” His tone was slightly hysterical as he shook a finger at him.

Takeru brushed the threat aside, long since over the intimidation he had once acutely felt for his ex-girlfriend’s older brother. “Don’t ask questions if you aren’t prepared for the answers.”

Taichi started to give him a stern lecture, but quickly shut his mouth when he spied the woman gliding effortlessly back towards them, moving for all the world like Takeru’s tricks had worked and she was being pulled towards their table. Taichi watch, speechless, as she approached, carrying two drinks in her hand, one of which was in a Styrofoam to-go container. She held this one close to her chest and gently placed the other coffee cup and saucer on the table in front of Taichi. “Please take it. I’m so sorry for my clumsiness.”

His cheeks reddened. “Oh—no, you didn’t have to—,”

“Please,” she insisted gently. “It’s my pleasure. It would be the highlight of my day to treat you to coffee.” She smiled again, and he was lost, stammering something wholly incoherent in response, his blush deepening to a rather ugly shade of burgundy when he heard, in horror, how inept he sounded. She only winked again, and her hand brushed his shoulder as she moved to the door behind him, jumpstarting his nerves in a way they had not been in far too long. 

As soon as she left, Takeru whistled lowly. “Damn.”

Taichi shook himself out of the reverie, scowling at the blatant desire plastered over the younger blond’s face. He picked up the new coffee cup, smelling the hint of her perfume lingering in the air around it. His arousal was difficult to deny, but something kept him back from admitting anything like it. He wasn’t ready. He told himself this firmly,  _ Not yet.  _ “You need to get yourself a girlfriend. I think you’re actually drooling right now.”

Ignoring his remarks, Takeru pointed frantically at the saucer on the table. “She gave you her number!”

Taichi choked, sputtering, but he saw that Takeru was right: on top of the little plate was a little business card, the woman’s name and phone number printed in the middle aligned center in neat type. He bent to check it was indeed real and not a figment of his starved imagination.  

“Catherine Deneuve," he read slowly. He sat back, chest tightening. "She’s just being nice,” he explained lamely, staring at the card in disbelief.

Takeru laughed, “Yeah, and she’s hoping to be a hella lot nicer, too—,”

“Seriously, Takaishi? Do you think of nothing else?”

“Well, forgive me for being devilishly attractive.”

“You’re the only one who thinks that.”

“Absolutely false,” he dismissed with a flick of his wrist, then picked up the card, turning it over. “It's been over three months now, almost four. You should call.”

“Forget it,” said Taichi at once, voice hardening dangerously, but Takeru either didn’t hear it or optimistically ignored it.

“Fine. I’ll call her.” He purred her name in the perfect French accent he reserved for charming a particularly worthy woman, "I think the lady Catherine Deneuve would prefer a blond anyway."

He barked irritably, “She didn’t give it to you!”

“Aha,” and Takeru winked, saluting him with the business card between his fingers. “You do want to call her.”

He snatched the card back. “No,” said Taichi in a matter-of-face voice, feigning dignity with his chin upturned. “I just don’t want to subject a girl like that to a guy like you.”

“You subjected your sister to—,”

“Watch it, Takaishi.”


	7. Fortune teller said I’d be free

The argument seemed to happen every year, because he inevitably did something every year to stir her worry each time. This time, the memory fresh in her mind, she shook her head with resounding finality and popped another grape into her mouth. "I'm thinking of going low-key this year."

Daisuke guffawed loudly. "You? Low-key?" He swallowed a gulp of water, coughing. "Weren't you wearing a tiara the entire night last year,” he paused, “ _ and  _ the week after?"

She did not confirm it, though Taichi noticed she didn't deny it either. He chuckled, reaching for his water bottle. It now went without requiring prior invitation that Taichi ate most lunches of the week in Mimi’s catering kitchen, and these days he had been bringing along his co-worker, Izumi Koushiro. The redhead had fit in well with the others, mostly amusing himself with the trio's sometimes inane conversation rather than participating much himself, though Daisuke had openly declared that he was relieved Taichi no longer felt like a third wheel, dutifully ignoring the older man when he stated he had felt nothing of the sort. 

They were gathered around one of the steel tables just behind the reception area that day, seated on stools. Koushiro poked at the noodles in his take-out lunch doubtfully and glanced at the delicious, meaty sandwich Daisuke had made for himself, which Taichi had to admit did look appetizing. But he kept his attention on the subject at hand, dark brown eyes settling on the way her bottom lip formed a perfect pout at being teased. She was slightly frazzled today, her hair swept up in a messy bun at the top of her head, apron front dirtied with what he suspected was chocolate sauce. He knew she was distracted and worried about something because she ate only her grapes, systematically popping them into her mouth one after the other, brow furrowed. He’d brought up her birthday celebration plans in hopes of making her smile, but all it seemed to do was make the glower deeper on her small mouth, though Taichi couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t be happy talking about herself.

"You’re definitely the type to make a big deal about your special day,” he observed with a shrug.

Mimi bristled. "Nevertheless, we all have to grow up sometime." She seemed to be directing this comment specifically to Daisuke, who was oblivious. "For example, shall I tell them what you did for your birthday, Daisuke, or would you like the honor?"

"Go ahead." He ballooned up like an overly confident puffer fish. "I am not embarrassed."

Mimi rounded on Taichi, fingers drumming the counter, and recalled the tale with grave disapproval. "Captain Try-Hard over here got drunk and ran naked into open traffic."

"I'm sorry?" Koushiro choked. 

Mimi looked vindicated and Taichi clapped his friend on the back, trying not to laugh himself.

"It was a streak through a private parking lot," Daisuke corrected her crossly, resenting the exaggeration. "And I was not naked. I had my chef's hat respectfully protecting my perfection from those who do not deserve to see it.”

“Ah, yes, so few do these days.”

"I still don't understand," interrupted Taichi loudly before Daisuke could retort, "why that means you aren't having a party?"

"Every year she thinks I’m going to steal her thunder if she has one. She’s afraid I’m gonna make an ass of myself, or some other ludicrous notion."

"I'm more afraid of you  _ showing  _ your—,"

He swallowed a huge bit of his sandwich and glared at her. "I will show love the way I show love, dammit! Quit trying to change me, woman!"

Her sigh was trying, as Koushiro and Taichi exchanged bemused looks. "And so, I don't want a party this year."

"She wants one," decided Daisuke, ignoring her protests. 

"Well, even if I did, where would it be? Jou's schedule is already overworked, so having it at home wouldn't be fair with all the noise if he has to go to bed early. And I don't think we're invited back to the place we went to for your birthday."

The criticism, like most he received, washed right over his head, leaving his healthy sense of self-worth perfectly unscathed. "Here!" He gestured wildly around, his flailing arms alarming one of the bakery part-time assistants who glowed red, thinking he was pointing at her. "No, not you—,"

" _ Daisuke _ —,"

Koushiro intervened in the potential squabble this time. "You know, there's a theater that lets you rent the smaller rooms by the hour for private events. It's very vintage, lots of draperies and curtains."

Mimi nodded, interest peaked. "Oh, that's right. Wasn't that where you had your parents' anniversary party we catered?"

"Ah," said Taichi with a grin, "so that's where all this magic began. See, if Koushiro hadn't recommended you, then you and I would have never met. You can't fake serendipity like that. You should definitely have it there."

"A 'return to the scene of the crime' would be a better theme for that," said Daisuke darkly, and Taichi threw him a look.

She was starting to break, though if she were honest with herself, she would have expected something to happen anyway. She loved parties, especially parties featuring herself, but she hadn't felt much like celebrating lately. They had taken on a few more clients than they normally did this time of year, unable to turn down the potential for profit even if it meant a busier schedule, and attendance at these events was draining her. She hadn't seen Jou in four days, even despite sharing the same apartment, and she knew she was more irritable than normal, catching herself wistfully staring at her dog-eared copy of the newest Red Guide in those moments when she thought no would catch her wallowing in what ifs and other wonders. 

"It's just a really busy time," she said lamely.

"Oh, come off it. You're gonna complain if you don't get one, and then you're gonna complain if you do." Daisuke scrunched up his nose and hung his head, like he was pitying her, though Mimi knew it was really himself he felt sorry for, as he'd be the one having to listen to the complaints either way.

"Do you promise to keep your clothes on?" 

"How many times has a woman asked you that, Daisuke?" laughed Taichi.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Koushiro began thoughtfully, “How many times has as woman sai—?”

The younger man smacked his sandwich down on the wrapper, shaking a warning finger at the redhead across from him. “You know, I’m starting to change my mind about letting you into this club.”

“ _ Letting _ me?” repeated Koushiro, rather offended.

Mimi hissed at him before another argument could break out, “Well, do you promise?”

"I promise," he drawled. 

"I could probably talk to my old contact at the theater," offered Koushiro. "Maybe he'll give a discount for a returning client?"

"The fates are aligning, Mimi," said Taichi. 

Holding her breath, she paused for a moment, relishing the attention from the three of them, and then nodded. "Okay," she said simply, unable to keep her excitement contained. Maybe this was just what she needed to get out of her slump.

Taichi gripped Koushiro's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Good man! You can be my date. You'll make me feel like half a power couple with all your connections."

The redhead shrugged modestly, then let the grin creep onto his face with a knowing glance. "I kind of figured you'd have your date, Taichi. Maybe a certain lady who bought you a certain cup of coffee last week?"

Taichi's eyes widened. "It's nothing," he started to say, but it was too late. 

Mimi was staring at him with a funny expression, mouth forming an "o" as the grape she had been about to eat remained between her frozen fingers, and Daisuke was beside himself with glee. "Oh, do tell," he cooed, leaning forward and wiggling his eyebrows. “You sly dog.”

Itching for something to do with his hands so he could keep the embarrassed blush of his face, Taichi started tugging at his hair, pulling the curls over his forehead as he hid his face. “What time is it? Should we head back to the office?”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” laughed Koushiro, who did not seem to pick up on the warning glance his co-worker had sent. "I caught you this morning running a web search on her name."

Daisuke found this hilarious, while Koushiro at last started to feel just the slightest bit remorseful for poking fun. He picked up his tray of noodles and shrugged when Taichi tossed him an exasperated sigh.

In all this, Mimi had continued nervously stuffing her mouth with grape after grape and now resembled a rather pink chipmunk. Daisuke reached over to stab her fat cheeks with his finger and she swatted at him, swallowing. “Is she pretty?” she teased along with the rest, speaking inarticulately with a mouth so full.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Taichi irritably, staring everywhere except at any of his friends. “I’m not asking her out. I’m not asking anyone out.”

Her shoulders relaxed, while Daisuke wrinkled his nose. “She's a troll, isn't she?"

Mimi flicked his ear, clicking her tongue. "Who raised you?"

"What's her name?"

"Catherine," answered Koushiro just as Taichi barked at Daisuke to mind his own business. 

Taichi crumpled the napkin in his hands, slamming down the top of his take-out box. "This is the last time I'm letting you come here with me, Koushiro."

The redhead gaped, “What is with all this  _ letting _ of me? Where’s my autonomy here?” 

Daisuke interrupted his internal crisis, asking Taichi, "What's so terrible about people knowing?"

"I don't have a problem with people knowing things," said Taichi testily. "But this particular thing is not a thing to be known."

"But she bought you coffee," he point out with a solemn nod of his head.

"Yes, the universal sign for romantic interest." Taichi shook his head curtly, the annoyed scowl going unnoticed by all except a quietly observant Mimi.

Daisuke held up his hands, alarmed. "Whoa, whoa. Slow down. No one is talking about romance here. This is dating."

Mimi flicked his ear again. "Can't you two see he doesn't want to talk about it? Leave him alone." She rose from her seat, gathering up the sandwich wrappers and dirty plates from their lunch and avoiding the dark brown eyes that followed her movements. 

"Mimi's right," Koushiro pushed back his stool, standing to help her, and Daisuke stretched his arms into the air with a defeated sigh. The redhead nodded apologetically at his friend. "It's nice sometimes to just get noticed. That's all I really meant."

"At least you know you've still got it," consented Daisuke. 

"You, on the other hand...," and Taichi deliberately trailed off, and Daisuke faked a punch to his shoulder, which he easily dodged. 

“Nice or not, Taichi,” he said with a chuckle, “I think it might be good for you.”

“So they tell me,” said Taichi noncommittally. 

“They would be right.”

“Well, they aren’t me.”

“I think you should at least—,”

“I am really done talking about this,” interrupted Taichi, voice calm but low. 

For the first time that afternoon, Daisuke took the hint, exchanging looks with a frowning Koushiro, who shook his head at him. They changed the subject at the same time, but Taichi had already gotten up and packed away his lunch, not paying attention to their conversation as he went to the sink to wash his hands. 

Mimi was there, rinsing plates. He could feel her eyes resting on him, and he braced himself, biting back a scowl.

“They’re just being idiots,” she said at last, dismissive of the entire conversation.

Taichi considered this, recalled the way their faces had lit up when the topic had first been raised. He shrugged, “Idiotic friends, sure.”

“It’s only because they want to see you happy.”

“I’m happy.”

And he wasn’t lying, which surprised him then to realize suddenly at the moment he had uttered the words. 

She was smiling at him when he looked up again, and he grinned, winking. After a moment, he prodded her casually, “How’s Jou?”

“Busy,” she answered automatically. “Why?”

“Remember, water fountain fight?”

Her eyes brightened, then darkened at once, mouth small and pursed. “Mm-hm.”

“Hey, it got the stain out, didn’t it?”

It was true, but she still flicked a soap bubble at him, and it popped on the sleeve of his white button-up shirt. He groaned, rubbing at the tiny circular mark it left behind, and she refused to apologize, considering her revenge justly deserved. 

Letting the water run over the soap mark, he continued, “You seemed like you were worried over talking to him about something. Is everything okay now?”

Her surprise at his interest should not have been so great, and she was flustered, admonishing herself for thinking he wouldn’t be concerned about her. They were friends now, and he had helped her in that moment, making her anxieties a little less so in his own way. So she said after another pause, “Yes,” even though it wasn’t true.

Taichi appeared satisfied with her answer, nodding. “Good.” He rolled down his sleeve to let it dry, no mark left behind. 

Before he could walk away, she reached across the sink and covered his hand with hers, squeezing it. She lowered her voice, hoping she sounded understanding and not persistent like the others had. “You have to take the leap sometime.”

“I know. I will," he said, his thumb tracing the inside of her palm reflexively. "Just not now."

Koushiro cleared his throat, interrupting them, and Mimi immediately withdrew her hand. She stuffed both fists into the pockets of her apron, feeling the warmth of his skin on her fingertips. Her fingers curled tightly together, wanting to remember what how it felt, and then in the next moment forced her hands to relax, stubbornly shaking the confusing numbness out of her head.

Daisuke sniffed in a dignified way as they approached. "Still mad, are you?”

Taichi widened his eyes, clutching his chest. “Me? You?”

He didn’t respond to the joking humor, face serious. “For being too pushy,” he muttered, glancing at Koushiro again.

The other man rubbed the back of his head meekly, brow furrowed. “We didn’t mean anything by it,” he apologized.

Taichi stared between them slowly. “This might be the most emotional lunch I have ever had.”

“What, and now I can’t even be honest with you?” said Daisuke hotly, scrunching up his face childishly. “You people get all mad when I’m not considerate, then you turn right around and ridicule all my attempts, just when I—,”

Before he could react, Taichi had grabbed him by the face, yanking him down by the ears, and kissed the top of his head, squeezing him brotherly. "You're very considerate, Daisuke. Don't let anyone stop you from streaking through parking lots, chef hat or no."

"You hear that, Mimi?" the younger man hollered after he playfully shoved Taichi off him, pumping a victorious fist into the air. "That's good enough permission for me!" 

She groaned.  _ Every _ year….


	8. And that’s the day you came to me

Between the white, the dark purple, the pinstriped black, and the cherry red button-up, Taichi had tried on all the nice shirts he could find before throwing his hands into the air, barely containing a strangled yell, and fell across the bed with dramatic desperation. Blindly reaching towards the pillow, he reached for his phone and rolled over on his back, gripping his hair in his other hand tightly. He reopened the first text conversation at the top of his most recent list and punched the keypad with anger and resolution. 

**_not going_ **

Within a minute, the answer came. 

**_Wear the blue one._ **

In spite of his mood, Taichi smiled as he reread the short message, then slowly typed his reply.

**_cant. havent done laundry_ **

**_& im not going_ **

He stared at the little thinking dots at the bottom left of the screen, waiting for the answer to appear once it sent. It felt like an eternity, watching the dots blink slowly at a pace that defied time and space, until at last the response appeared, and he relaxed again when he finally read it.

**_The black then. With the pinstripes. Do you have time to iron it?_ **

He snorted, amused. 

**_an iron? whats that?_ **

**_& im not going_ **

The next text came slower than the others, and he imagined her leaning back against the counter, hair braided into a tight bun, cheeks streaked with powdered sugar and hands stained by the colored fondant her small fingers had been kneading all day. He saw her biting her lip in concentration, fingers flying quickly over each tiny detail, but moving with care and exactness. She was probably working on the last tier of the wedding cake scheduled for delivery that evening, and Daisuke was probably already packing up for the event, securing into their boxes the tiny little toppers carved from marzipan and sugar. 

It was likely the second of the three she had made that Daisuke packed, for Taichi had inadvertently squashed the face of the bride’s figurine when he had poked it to see how soft it was. She had yelled at him for nearly ten minutes straight, which he admittedly deserved, but it was so difficult not to give into the childish temptation to antagonize her when she looked as funny as she did with her face scrunched up in anger. 

Smirking, he did not see the message until the phone vibrated in his hand.

**_You are going. It wasn’t easy getting reservations at this place. Don’t be late and embarrass me._ **

His reply was immediate, as though he had been thinking about it for a while. 

**_id rather go with u_ **

When the blinking dots disappeared, he quickly wrote back, covering his tracks, flustered.

**_then i could embarrass u easier ha_ **

The dots did not reappear. 

He waited for a minute, staring at the screen, but nothing more happened. He turned the screen off, inexplicably nervous, and sat up, nervously tugging at the tuft of unruly hair over his forehead. With a sigh, he pulled the black pinstriped shirt towards and yanked it on, smoothing the wrinkles in the cuffs. He ruffled his hair, teasing it into the right look though he became unhappier with each attempt. After twenty minutes of this, he gave up, buttoning the collar of his shirt and pulling on his jacket. He checked his reflection in the mirror, studying every inch of his scowling face with resentment. 

This was insane.

This was stupid.

This was not fair.

He repeated the mantra to himself as he gathered his wallet and keys, slipping his phone into his pocket.  _ Insane, stupid, unfair. Insane, stupid, unfair. Insane, stupid, unfair. _

What the hell was he even doing?

He punched the button for the lobby in the elevator of his building, then leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight. His heart was racing, mouth dry, and he pressed his hands to his temples, trying to even his quick breathing. The doors opened, but he did not move, feeling his chest constrict, paralyzing every muscle in an incredible panic. 

This wasn’t him. He was better, stronger, braver. He knew himself, and this was not who he was. 

But he thought he knew her, too, and where did that get him?

He jumped when his pocket vibrated, fingers fumbling to retrieve the mobile. 

**_Get out of the elevator._ **

He laughed shakily, casting a clammy hand over his face. 

_ Right _ , he told himself, assuming a stern tone.  _ Right _ .

The walk to the restaurant took less time than he anticipated, even as he kept a slow pace. The restaurant was on the highest floor of a large downtown commercial building, and the trip to the top was already enough to make his wallet begin quivering with an entirely different kind of fear. He was immensely relieved to be the first one there, allowing the hostess to take his coat and seat him at a corner table by windows that overlooked a cityscape dipped in twilight. The view was remarkable, and he regretted waiting so long to sample the eatery with such a promising locale. Making a mental note to tell Hikari about it, he accepted the glass of ice water the waiter served and politely declined further assistance. Without taking a sip, he set the glass down, staring at the intricately laid tableware and wondering if he should have taken the time to iron out his shirt after all. 

Just as he contemplated another attempt to bolt for the nearest exit and cancel the evening altogether, a loud crash from the kitchens tore him from his thoughts. His fellow diners were peering curiously towards the doors behind the bar at the far left of the room, and he craned his neck. Shouting echoed furiously through the rooms, and a minute later, a man with a thin goatee and horn-rimmed glasses burst through the kitchen doors, shouting curse words. The hostess came rushing forward, alarmed, while another well-dressed elderly gentleman appeared to sternly admonish the screaming chef. The man ignored them all, whipping his hat from his head and hurling both it and his soaking apron at the pair. In a flurry of frantic movements, he was escorted out of the restaurant by several other waiters, while the hostess, her face pink in embarrassment, rushed off into the kitchen with the other gentleman. 

Silence filled the dining room as the patrons looked around at each other, still unnerved. But Taichi, having never expected to witness such a scene at a place as fancy as this, felt the tense knot of his stomach come undone. Whatever the night had in store for him, he thought, it couldn’t be as bad as that. This was a good sign. He paused,  _ Wasn’t it? _

“Mr. Yagami?”

He choked. “Oh, God— _ where _ ?” His gaze snapped around the room, searching for his father in horror, but instead settled on an absolute vision of a woman before him. Her soft blonde hair had been pulled up in the kind of loose-fitting up-do that growing up with a younger sister had taught him was deceptively casual. Somehow, the thought that she had spent time on her appearance just for a simple dinner flattered him, and he grinned at her, kicking out his chair as he stood. “You can just call me Taichi,” he said sheepishly. 

Her pale pink lips pulled into a generous smile, “Then please, call me Catherine.”

He hastily pulled her chair back, letting her settle in at the table comfortably, then returned to his own seat, determined not to fumble in front of her. 

“Oh, what a lovely view,” she said, leaning into the glass with admiration. 

He didn’t consider his view half so bad either. She wore a beige knee-length sleeveless dress, paired with an off-white short jacket that matched her nude pumps. The entire ensemble seemed to make her glow ethereally, and he was mesmerized, the nervous turning of his stomach becoming that much easier to ignore in the calmness of her companionship. 

Their email exchanges and phone conversations had been brief since he initiated them after a bit of prodding from well-meaning—though insatiably curious—friends, though Takeru seemed to read far more into her responses than Taichi ever could. The young blond had accused him of being horrifically obtuse, pointing out each turn of phrase or cleverly placed emoticon as a blatant invitation. Taichi did not quite see it that way, remembering the exchanges as polite though affectionate, even if he felt self-conscious enough to keep his sense of joking humor to a minimum whenever he wrote or called her. He wasn’t sure what was holding him back. 

Daisuke said it was nerves, peppering him with the kind of locker room talk that Taichi suspected the man had been recycling for dates of his own, with varying degrees of success, for years. 

Sora said it was not unexpected, given the situation, which only reminded Taichi of the situation and put him in a worse mood, until Sora told him he was looking for excuses and she wasn’t going to give them to him.

Koushiro said it was natural, advising him to slowly ease into the open communication he had been used to with a partner and reminding him that it always took time to get into sync with another person.

Yamato said it was nothing to worry about, to which Taichi had retorted he wasn’t worried, to which Yamato had rolled his eyes and prompted another harmless squabble, which seemed to do the trick and distract Taichi long enough to forget he really was worried.

And Mimi—well, she had successfully kept her thoughts about all of it to herself, a feat no less remarkable for how much opining she usually did about every topic presented to her. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him, too.

He found himself inadvertently frowning then, and this time Catherine saw it. She lowered her fork to her plate and arched a perfect eyebrow, concerned. “Do you not like your appetizer?”

He glanced down at the untouched salad, seasoned simply with toasted almonds and brie crumbles. His stomach growled on instinct, and he winced at the sound, scratching his head with another apologetic grin. “Ah, it’s nothing. I mean, it’s fine.”

Something flashed in her blue eyes, and she looked away, pert nose wrinkling slightly, and he realized she might be taking his uninspired conversation as a reflection on herself. 

“They told me not to tell you,” he blurted out in what, in hindsight, was a rather poor attempt at making her feel better.

Catherine regarded him with wide and slightly fearful eyes. "Well, that's ominous."

He gave a panicked laugh, which he quickly quelled, uncomfortable. "I mean, some people said to tell you, some said not to, and I am still trying to figure out if I should."

"We are only just acquaintances, aren’t we? You are under no obligation to tell me all your secrets." She crossed her legs, pulling the skirt over the top of a pale knee. 

"It's not a secret," he said at once, disliking the idea that he should hide the truth. "It's just...I don't want people to think differently about me."

 She rested a slender elbow on the table, propping her chin in her palm. “Well, I like how I think about you now.”

He grinned, amused, leaning forward. “Let’s just say I’m not sure you would have agreed to dinner if you knew.”

“That does add a layer of intriguing mystery.” Sparkling blue eyes narrowed slightly, glinting. “I should tell you, though, I rather like being able to decide for myself what is good for me. I think I deserve that much at least.”

The waiter returned then with their entrees, and the conversation hit a pause as the plates were cleared and the main courses delivered. Catherine did not touch hers yet, hands folded in her lap, and Taichi leaned back, nervously rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip as he hesitated. But she was not looking at him with the kind of reserved expectation that he had envisioned. Her smile was genuine, and her demeanor inviting. So he told her.

“This is my first date in four years.” He paused, remembering, “Actually, it’s my first  _ first _  date in four years.”

“I see.” She smiled, “Well, I am honored.”

The grin returned, and he ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly more relaxed when she winked at him.

But then her next question made his muscles seize up, the lump growing in his throat.

"What’s her name?"

He started to tell her, but then stopped himself and closed his mouth, lips making a thin line. "It doesn't matter."

"I think she matters."

"What happened matters," he corrected. 

She picked up on the hardness in his voice and sat back in her chair. "We don’t have to talk about what happened,” she said simply, taking a small sip of her water. She set the glass down on the table and smoothed the napkin in her lap. 

He regretted his tone when he saw how she avoided his gaze, focusing her attention on the meal, but the unexpected turn of conversation, after the internal struggle he’d endured in even admitting the most important part, still bothered him. But he did not like to make anyone uncomfortable, and so he joked to lighten the mood, “Anyway, if you want to end the night early and bolt, I won’t blame you. I just would rather you understand where I am right now. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”

To his surprise, she raised her chin and flashed him a wry smile of her own. “Isn’t it a bit early for the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”

He opened his mouth to protest the meaning, then stopped, surprised, feeling his cheeks warm in a dark blush. “Is that what I’m doing?” he asked, marveling at the idea with vague despair.

“A little bit,” she admitted with a laugh.

He winced, face in his hand. “I told you, it’s been a really long time. I’m not that great at this kind of stuff. I didn’t think I’d have to do it again.” He bit his tongue gently at the last comment, not intending to admit such a thing, no matter how true. 

But Catherine did not seem to notice. She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Would you like to start over?”

“Start over?” he repeated, confused, peaking out between his fingers.

She held out her hand, straightening in her chair with a professional pose, chin raised. He took her palm in his, fingers brushing over the soft skin. 

“Hello, Taichi. My name is Catherine. I’d like to be your friend. Would you like to be mine?”

His chuckle was low, and he cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“I thought you might,” she winked, releasing his hand. He surprised by the lingering way her touch seemed to infuse with his own, and he wished he had held on longer. He quickly retracted his arm, curling his fingers together. 

“Really?” he said, smirking back.

“Oh, I think we will become very good friends.”

Her confidence was intoxicating, so unlike the way he had arrived here that night. The reservations he had about her were starting to shift, and he did not know how to press forward, however more comfortable he now was. He suspected she was doing this all on purpose, but he also suspected he liked it.

They continued their dinner, moving into the dessert and sharing a crème brûlée tart that Taichi didn’t think tasted as good as Mimi’s. He told Catherine as much, and she dismissed the claim, which somehow turned into him promising her a chance to taste the caterer’s version so she could apologize for such a poor taste in dessert preferences. Catherine insisted it would never happen, and Taichi found himself accepting the challenge, determined to prove he was right, before he even realized he had just agreed to a second date, startling himself so effectively that he almost left his jacket with the coat check girl. He scrambled back after it, leaving Catherine waiting in the elevator lobby, then was struck with an idea. It was several moments later that he emerged from the restaurant and met her at the lift, grinning and holding a takeout box, refusing to let her peek inside. She tried to grab for it, protesting, insisting that she be allowed to keep a portion of the delicious take-out if he got to as well, but he waved her off, telling her she would just have to wait until the next evening. 

Still holding onto the takeout box, he waited until the taxi she had called turned the corner before making his own way to the one place he felt most himself. 

Daisuke was sitting at the front desk, fuming under his breath, striking the keyboard at the work computer with stubby fingers. He did not look up with Taichi let himself inside the shop, ignoring the sign hung on the door announcing the premises as closed for business. He set the takeout box on the desk, then fell back with a loud, exhausted sigh onto the chairs assembled in the little lounge area at the front. Daisuke ignored him completely, and he cleared his throat again. 

“Stop making that noise, I’m trying to work,” grumbled the younger man, scowling at the monitor. 

Taichi was amused. “Another losing battle with technology?”

“It’s this stupid reservation system,” complained Daisuke, pointedly not denying that the problem might actually be with his ability—or lack thereof—to use said system. 

“Want me to take a look?”

“Clients aren’t supposed to use the computer.”

“I thought I wasn’t a client anymore.”

“Right now, you’re as annoying as one,” he snapped, distracted. “Shouldn’t you be out on your hot date?”

Taichi gestured to the takeout box. “Just ended.”

“Oh,” said Daisuke. He pulled his gaze from the computer at last, surveying the to-go bag and then glancing at Taichi, his face crumbling into awkward sympathy. “Sorry.”

Taichi’s eyes widened. “About what?” he barked, offended. “Just because it ended early doesn’t mean I’m entirely pathetic at this, you know.”

His friend was grinning slyly, wiggling inquisitive eyebrows. “So you’re gonna see her again?”

“Who’s gonna see who again?”

Taichi sat up at once, catching her gaze as she emerged from the bakery kitchen at the back of the store. Her arms raised, she was pulling apart the braids in her messy bun, running fingers through the tresses as they fell down her shoulders. Her posture was slouched, exhausted, as she undid the knots of her apron and pulled it from her small waist, rolling up the cloth with a sigh.

“Taichi’s gonna see Catherine again,” announced Daisuke with a self-righteous grin.

He thought he noticed the almost imperceptible pause in her movements as she continued combing out her hair, but then she was smiling at him gently, and he figured it was his imagination. 

“It went well?”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Daisuke interrupted when he opened his mouth to respond. He flew around the front table and dragged a chair closer to Taichi, knocking knees with him, then leaned forward with his chin in his palms, eyes wide open like a gossip-hungry schoolgirl. “Tell us everything. Start from the beginning.”

Taichi rolled his eyes, noting how readily he had abandoned his work in favor of living vicariously through a more interesting life. “Should I braid your hair, too?”

The man clicked his tongue, waving the teasing aside and gesturing for him to continue his story. Mimi took up Daisuke’s work at the computer, and Taichi glanced at her, expecting her to likewise deride Daisuke’s curiosity. But she did not say another word, training her unblinking gaze onto the screen as she finished the task distracted in her attention. 

He shrugged, “I told her the truth, and she said it was fine just being friends.”

Daisuke’s face fell, gravely disappointed. “You’re shitting me.” Taichi rolled his eyes as Daisuke sputtered, throwing up his hands in defeat. “You actually just want to be friends with a woman like that?” Shaking his head mournfully, he pointed at the takeout bag. “That’s where you went wrong. Never take food home from the restaurant. All the classy broads don’t want to sleep with a spend-thrift.”

Taichi neglected to correct the crudely-worded assumption, his gaze drawing back to Mimi as she hunched over the keyboard. “The restaurant was a good choice,” he said suddenly, hoping to get her attention. 

 “Was it?” she murmured, half-listening.

“Except for the dessert. Their crème brûlée couldn’t hold a candle to yours.”

She dismissed the compliment easily, ignoring the tender way he said it. “That’s ridiculous. They’re the top dessert place in town.”

“I don’t know,” said Daisuke, leaning back in his chair and yawning. “You’re pretty good, Mimi.”

“I couldn’t live without your approval, Daisuke.”

“Ah, such power,” he mused happily, closing his eyes.

“Well, anyway, I’ve got a bet with Catherine that yours is better, so that’s their version,” Taichi nodded at the bag, smiling at her, “and we just need one of yours.”

She stopped. 

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He stood and dug into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled business card. Smoothing the wrinkles flat on top of the counter, he slid it to her. “About the restaurant, I happen to know the owner there is interested in new talent.”

“How would you know that?” demanded Daisuke doubtfully, arms crossed behind his head.

Taichi grinned at the memory, guiltily still enjoying it. “There was this big fuss just as I got there. All this racket from the kitchens—and then this guy just walked out, throwing his apron on the floor. You don’t make a scene like that if you’ve just been promoted.”

Daisuke looked impressed, though Taichi wondered if it was with his ability to discern a situation as a casual spectator, or the fired cook’s dramatic exit. The younger man called over his shoulder, “Sounds like there might be something there, Mimi.”

She picked up the card mechanically, limbs stiff, though she did not understand why. She stared at the printed letters, mind blank. “You got his card?”

“You got me out of the elevator,” he said. “I think I owe you. Besides, I told him about you.”

Her heart leapt unexpectedly into her throat, and she swallowed the hard lump. “You did?”

“Yeah, when I went back to tell him about my bet over your crème brûlée. Besides,” Taichi shrugged, “as I recall, 'friends don’t ruin each other’s chances to become friends with someone better.' I figured the rule applies to potential career advancements, too.”

Daisuke was practically preening, delighted that his sage wisdom was finally being implemented by others. He crowed, “I should write a book.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Motomiya.”

Mimi tuned out the rest of their banter, fingers closing around the card as her heartbeat quickened. For years she had been wondering about the possibility of meeting a chef at a Red Guide restaurant, becoming an apprentice, learning from the greats. She had never had the courage to follow through, and so often doubted her abilities to even be worthy of that kind of specialized training. She didn’t even know if she would be any good in a restaurant setting; it was so different than the catering business.

And then, suddenly, she was holding this card, this chance, in her hands.

Because of him.

“Thank you,” she stammered finally, head still bowed. The pair immediately stopped exchanging quips, glancing at her. Her face was inexplicably warm under his brown-eyed gaze. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

Taichi stared at her in surprise, stunned by the way her voice seemed to quiver with emotional gratitude. He started to tell her it was just a business card, but was rudely interrupted by a loud puff of suddenly realized anger.

Daisuke frowned, pouting. “What about thinking of me? I could use a mentor. Why didn't you find me one, too?”

“I am not a miracle worker, Daisuke.”


	9. I caught you burning photographs

 

If things had worked out properly, her birthday would have fallen on a national holiday. Indeed, had the government any sense, they would ascribed it such a status by now. But, if she were honest, Mimi would have to admit that she did not particularly like the idea of sharing her day with a nation; even in grade school, she had resented deeply and personally the handful of children who had deigned to be born in the same month. This was  _ her _ time,  _ her _ special occasion. Luckily, the people in her life did recognized this, or at least they knew her wrath well enough to go as over the top as she did, following her cue. 

This year, as she did on all the years, she stayed up until midnight, and at the stroke of the clock, her parents called and sung her the same birthday song her father had made up when she was still a toddler. It was a tradition that Mimi in no way felt she would ever be too old to enjoy, and she cooed and giggled throughout the off-key rendition, eagerly soaking up their well wishes and promising to visit soon.

Giddy from that, she accepted her traditional midnight birthday cupcake and its lone, flickering candle from a groggy and barely conscious Jou, who had enough self-control to stay alert and focused until just after she blew out the flame, upon which he promptly passed out with a loud snore. 

Ruffling his short hair affectionately as he succumbed to the effects of another exhausting long call at the hospital, she proceeded to happily stuff the cupcake into her mouth and opened her laptop. She logged into her email to see who had sent an e-card and who she would have to burn for forgetting—then spat out a mouthful of vanilla buttercream frosting when she clicked on the attachment from Daisuke’s email, the first of the greetings. The accompanying picture was a gigantic, high-definition spread of a beautifully chiseled naked male model, lathered up in suntan oil and animated to wiggle his perky, sculpted bottom while tossing sultry glances at the camera. Daisuke’s birthday message scrolled along the bottom:  **_A preview of coming attractions?? Stay tuned for tonight and find out!!_ **

Mortified, her face a dark scarlet, Mimi quickly closed the window, casting a nervous glance at her boyfriend. Jou was still blissfully unaware as he sprawled out under the covers of the bed beside her, but she didn’t take the risk. She decided to save the rest of the birthday emails—noting happily how her inbox was growing; her friends knew the routine by now—for the morning. 

That night, she dreamt that a parade of naked models marched through her catering shop as a well-dressed restaurateur shouted at her to pay attention to the assembly line of  crème brûlée tarts that sped by on the tables, moving too fast for her to torch the letters  **_id rather go with u_ ** into glazed sugar that finally melted together into the shape of smirking dark brown eyes.  She awoke with a start, skin burning with something like pleasure that quickly washed away in guilt, and she sat up, chastising herself for being so shaken by a meaningless series of more meaningless images. 

Jou had already awoken, an early riser if there ever were one. He had taken the time to make up his side of the bed, placing a vase full of strikingly white calla lilies on her nightstand with the collection of birthday cards amassed from the morning mail. He had also cleaned up the remnants of her midnight birthday cupcake, leaving in its place a trail of sticky Post-it notes bearing his unseemly poor attempts at drawing smiley faces and oblong shapes that she suspected were supposed to be hearts. The notes covered the wall, leading her from the bed to the kitchen, where he had ordered a takeout breakfast from her favorite corner bakery. Smiling, she nibbled on an almond croissant as she read the note he had tucked under her coffee mug, explaining his list of errands for the day. He reminded her gently to fetch the last of the decorations from Daisuke’s flat, promising to pick up her dress from the dry cleaners himself when he returned that afternoon. 

Mimi finished her breakfast quickly, then showered and selected the first of her birthday outfits for the day, twisting her hair into a loose ponytail before gathering her supplies. She phoned Daisuke ahead of time as only a courtesy; usually, she let herself into his place uninvited and unannounced, having secured a copy of his key after the fourth time he locked himself out in as many weeks and she realized he was a hopeless mess without adult supervision. 

There was a click on the other line and then she nearly dropped her phone when two terribly out of synch and out of pitch voices began serenading her with two completely different versions of a birthday song. She hung up on them to save her ears, massaging her temples as she stepped into the elevator in his building. 

The door was already open when she arrived, and she had the briefest glimpse of blurred bodies leaping towards her before she was overcome by cologne and aftershave and testosterone, collapsing onto the floor of Daisuke’s studio apartment and trapped under their combined weights. The breath was knocked from her chest, and her heart was rattling in her throat, and she found herself sinking beneath their ferocious embrace, planted facedown with Daisuke’s knee rammed into her thigh and Taichi’s elbow digging into her spine. 

“ _ Get—off—now _ ,” she gasped into someone’s armpit, or attempted to, but her face was squashed into a mess of skin and hair and clothes, and there was nothing she could do about it. She lay sprawled, trapped, as they both began talking to her at the same time.

“Did you like my email?” crowed Daisuke, his arms wrapped around the top of her head and squeezing affectionately. “I’ve been saving that one since last year! Koushiro helped me with the editing; you should have seen his face when we were making the gif image of the guy’s butt.” He trailed off, cackling, the rumbling mirth ringing deep in his chest.

“Birthday pancake hugs are the best,” mumbled Taichi, his face in her fair, laughing. “I used to do this to my sister until she learned how to kick.” His breath was tickling her ear, and she shivered, fragments of her dream hurtling back into her mind. 

Anxious to escape his touch, her thoughts latched on the last words he spoke like a tonic.  _ Kick, woman, kick _ , she told herself and started scrambling. She flailed any part of her she could still feel, wiggling her body like a codfish out of water, until Taichi finally struggled to his feet, extracting himself from the tangled heap of awkward limbs and yanking Daisuke off of her. 

Free at last, she lay flat on the floor, breath shuddering back into lungs that felt like silly putty. With an amused snort, Taichi gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the couch that also acted as Daisuke’s bed once pulled out. He set her down gently on the cushions, leaning close to her and bopping his thumb on a pert nose as red as a ripe tomato. “Happy birthday, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” she stammered awkwardly, nose burning, desperately trying not to look into his eyes. 

Daisuke laughed. “Yeah, we know. You’re old as fuck now.”

The churning of her stomach hardened and she glared at him, shaking an angry finger. “Don’t ever send me pictures like that again.”

He put his hands on the waistband of his pants. “What, you want the real thing already, Mimi? Jeez, learn to control yourself, will you?”

Taichi steered him away from her eyeline, recognizing the murderous glint in her hazel orbs and intervening at once. “All right, let’s finish these decorations, shall we?”

They set about the tasks, Mimi barking out orders until her back stopped feeling so sore and she silently forgave them for their stunt. Daisuke undid the knots in the Christmas lights she wanted to loop around the walls of the gallery that night, and Taichi cut out the paper stars she was planning on affixing to the bulbs for an ethereal touch. Their work was consistently interrupted, attention spans too short not to descend into squabbles or cravings for snacks, until it became clear that the constant work was wearing on their tired selves. Mimi tried to keep a note of the time throughout this, pestering the pair to hurry up, nagging that only served to remind Daisuke that he was actually quite annoyed by the fancy theme. 

The venue Koushiro recommended was modestly elegant, so Mimi had decided to make it a cocktail party. When he heard, Daisuke had accused her of conspiratorially plotting to ensure he was more clothed than normal by requiring black tie attire, taking offense to the fact that she didn’t seem to trust his promise to her. She did not want to turn it into a sort of challenge, knowing that his spicy temperament would never allow him to pass up such a contest. So when he grumblingly brought it up again as they sat on the floor untangling twinkling lights, she distracted him by asking if he remembered to pick up her cake from their shop’s bakery, which did the trick. His face blanched and his eyes bugged, and suddenly he was scrambling for the door with clammy palms and rambling off excuses, yelling to help themselves to whatever was needed around his apartment in his assuredly short absence. 

Pleased with both herself and how easy he was, Mimi spread the lights in front of her and started taping the paper stars together. From his position on the couch behind her, Taichi dumped another stack of crudely cut templates onto her lap, flexing his sore fingers as he yawned sleepily in the early afternoon hour.

She exclaimed over the jagged lines. “These are terrible, Taichi.”

“They’ll all look the same once you hang them up,” he said, lying back on the ratty old couch. Its cushions were torn and stained, and Taichi tried not to think about what the cause of the marks were as he stretched his legs out over them. 

“You can’t fold them properly when they’re so uneven,” she protested in dismay, frowning at each funnily-shaped star. 

“Use the tape.”

“You said you were going to help me—,”

“I am helping—,”

“With this?” She waved a star that better resembled a pudgy triangle with vague aspirations of one day sprouting into a rhombus. “What is this even supposed to be?”

Taichi groaned and sank lower into the lumpy cushions, laying a forearm over his closed eyes. “I need a break. My hands hurt, my head hurts, and you’re being mean to me.”

Mimi paused, craning her neck to glance upwards at him, criticism evaporating. Both Taichi and Koushiro had only had time for one lunch at the catering shop that week, citing a massive deadline at work that had meant longer hours and difficult projects. The day they had come in, Mimi noticed right away the exhausted lines etched into his face, complaining of an onset of headaches as he adjusted to less sleep and more stress. 

Her voice was soft. “Do you want some water?”

He mumbled in the affirmative, turning over on his side, face buried into the back of the couch. Mimi set aside her work and pulled herself to her feet, trotting across the apartment to the small kitchenette by the windows. 

In spite of the absolute mess that was the rest of Daisuke’s tiny studio apartment, his even tinier kitchen was impeccable. With a clean and polished stovetop, neatly arranged cookware, and cabinets overflowing with treasured appliances, each section of the cramped space revealed where the young man’s heart truly lay, and it made Mimi smile as her hands ran over the little shrine that was Daisuke’s kitchen. 

She filled a glass with water, retrieving the little bottle of painkillers her friend always kept near his alcohol stash, and retraced her steps to the couch, hesitating when she saw how still he was. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“Not yet,” he mumbled into the cushions.

“Got you some medicine.” She shook the pill bottle at him, then immediately regretted it when he winced and clasped a hand over his ears to block out the rattling. Cursing her lack of consideration, she dropped to her knees in front of the sofa again, opening the childproof cap and coaxing two capsules out onto her palm. “Come on,” she told him, resting the hand cupping the pills on his shoulder rather than poke at him the way she would have otherwise. “You’ll feel better if you take something.”

Taichi rolled over on his back with a grumbling sigh. She handed him the capsules first, then the glass of water, which he tried to return to her after only a small sip. “No,” she said stubbornly, a bit more like her mother than she cared to accept. “Drink it all.”

He did as he was told. She took the empty glass and recapped pill bottle and set it down on the floor, returning her worried expression to him. He did not notice, laying with his head propped on the arm of the couch, forearm pressed to his forehead, and dark brown eyes closed. 

She crossed her arms on the cushion and studied him. “Why’d you come if you weren’t feeling well?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing right through her. “I’ll be there tonight.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she protested at once, cheeks pink. “And I don’t want you there if you’re just going to be sick everywhere.”

“What, and miss Daisuke put on a show if I get him drunk enough?”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Besides, I know you want me there. You’ve seen how well I fill out a suit,” he reminisced, smirking. “Or maybe I do it so well, you don’t want me around, just in case I’m the one who steals your thunder this time.”

“The real miracle would be how you’ll fit that ego into the room.”

“Well, considering my head feels like it’s gonna explode anyway, I suspect it won’t be that hard when the time comes.” He rubbed his forehead, sucking in his breath. 

Her voice softened, and she leaned into him. “Is it just a headache? Do you have a fever?” She pulled herself up on the couch, scooting into the small space beside his hip, and bent over to press the back of her hand on his forehead, nudging his arm aside. Her touch was cool and gentle, tracing the wrinkles of his brow. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying the feather-light touch of her fingers on his skin more than he would ever admit aloud, or to himself. “You don’t seem warm,” she murmured, brushing his thick bangs aside. 

“I’m not. It’s just work. These hours are killing me, and I haven’t been sleeping that well.”

“If you’re that tired, I don’t want you to exert yourself.”

“You’re as bad a liar as me,” he joked, smiling, peeking out at her between his fingers. “Besides, I’ve still got my tux, and you’re going to melt when you see how adorable I am in a bowtie.”

She snorted, covering her face with one hand so she could keep the other lingering casually against his cheek. “A bowtie?”

“Yeah, Daisuke said it would be snazzy, so we both got some.”

An alarming image of Daisuke careening about the velvet-draped gallery in a Chippendale uniform, shrieking that he was still following the black-tie instructions as she furiously chased after him, hit her in the mental eye, and she flinched, hand forming a fist against the side of Taichi’s face. He ducked on instinct, eyebrow raised, and she drew her arms back, frowning at him. 

“It’s just the bow-tie, is it?”

“And the tux,” he reminded, laughing as though he knew exactly what vision was traumatizing her right now, too. “Daisuke was right; you do have a dirty mind.” He paused, “Although, it does make you wonder, with all this talk.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you implying?”

“He does seem to get naked an awful lot around you. Are you sure he and you aren’t…?” He cut himself off, waggling his eyebrows. 

Her cheeks glowed a bright pink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What, not even once?”

“I have a boyfriend, you know—,”

He craned his neck, imitating a frantic search of the room. “Yeah, and where is he, by the way? Shouldn’t he be helping you with your party?”

“He is,” she insisted, annoyed that she felt so defensive. She wanted to slip back down to the floor, move away from him, but her legs were frozen where she sat, her back cradled against his on the couch. She added, “He’s down at the venue, and then he’s going to the dry cleaner’s to get my dress.”

“Got a picture?”

Mimi never turned down the opportunity to show off a new outfit, and she leaned back to fish her mobile from the back pocket of her jeans. Doing so meant her elbow brushed against his stomach, and she did not move it once her phone was in her hand. Instead, she casually leaned against him, twisting her body so her forearms rested on his chest, determinedly assuming an expression of nonchalance and control. She found the picture of the dress in her recent photos, the one she had taken when it was still on its hanger. 

Taichi whistled lowly as he took the phone from her for a closer look. “Well, I’m certainly not missing seeing you in that.”

Her lips pursed together, bemused. “After lecturing me about Daisuke, I’m not so sure it’s appropriate for you to be making known how you’d like to see me.”

He shifted his balance so that she sank even lower into him, and she did not pull away. He smirked, “Ah, but see, unlike the real reason he likes running naked during your parties, I have no problem with people knowing I think you’re beautiful.”

Her eyes narrowed, chin propped up in her palm. “Mm-hm. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He shrugged and handed the phone back to her, lopsided grin spreading across his face. But this time his voice was softer, like a secret. “You know I do.”

The door opened, and Taichi immediately sat up, while she slid into the empty space his legs left behind as he swung himself around. They both were sitting politely beside each other when Daisuke entered, the space between warm with unspoken tension that she tried to ignore. Carrying a large pink bakery box under his arm, Daisuke stopped when he saw them and narrowed his eyes with deep suspicion. 

“I see how it is,” he said slowly.

Taichi brushed him off easily, but Mimi thought his chuckle sounded nervous, and she hid her own anxiousness with a wrinkling frown. 

She started to explain, “We were just—,”

“I know what you were doing,” Daisuke barked, kicking the door closed behind him. He shifted the packages in his arms and thrust an angry elbow towards the star cut-outs and stringed lights on the floor. He mimicked Mimi’s voice perfectly, “’Get the cake, get the decorations, get the tuxes.’ Honestly, you two think you can make me do all the work, don’t you?”

Mimi sank into the cushions, rolling her eyes. “You’re quite the martyr when you want to be, aren’t you?”

“I’m not doing everything by myself,” he sniffed irritably.

“Ah, but you do it so much better than we could.” Taichi stood then, taking a moment to press his hands to the side of his temple briefly. Mimi noticed the gesture with concern, but what she remembered the most was the way he wouldn’t look at her now, as though his dark brown eyes were purposely avoiding her. “Anyway, I’ve got something I need to do before the birthday party to end all birthday parties. I’ll see you guys tonight.”

Daisuke protested after him, “Oi, I was just joking about leaving me with all the work, but now you really are!”

But Taichi was unmoved, sauntering towards the door with his hands in his pockets and that easy laugh that always seemed to make Mimi more confused. “Sorry, Daisuke, but if there’s one thing I have learned, it’s to not keep a woman waiting.” He waved goodbye with a casual air, cutting of the younger man’s sputtering retort, and slipped out of the apartment all too quickly.

Mimi did not realize she was still staring after him until Daisuke already delivered the cake to the fridge, washed his hands, and settled himself again at her feet to continue working on taping the paper stars together. He nudged her knee with his shoulder, reminding her of the time. She pulled herself out of uncomfortable thoughts, putting on her best apologetic smile and helping him with the last of the lights. 

After wrapping up with a late birthday lunch, cooked by Daisuke himself—though Mimi insisted she expected a better present than just a homemade meal, no matter how delicious it was—she returned home only a few minutes after Jou, who met her, beaming, with a freshly laundered dress, still zipped up in its garment bag. Distracted by the excitement, she shooed him out of the bedroom and spent as long as possible getting ready, obsessing over each tendril of hair and each crease of her dress. 

“Mimi, we need to get going,” Jou called in the middle of her last run of her curling iron. “You don’t want to be late to your own party, do you?”

“A princess is never late!” 

His laugh relaxed her, easing a tension that had been building in her chest. Knowing she liked her grand entrances, he stepped back patiently. There was some rustling behind the door before it finally opened, and when it did, his smile slipped. 

She chewed her lip nervously, glancing down. “You don’t like it?”

“Are you joking?” he gasped, flustered. “You look—,” and he stopped, unable to find the right word. 

Her strapless tea-length gown was deceptively simply in its bodice cut, pooling into ruffles of dark red satin from a delicate waist. She had curled her light brown hair and pinned the long tresses away from her face with clips lined in miniature pearls. Matching studs lined the ear cuffs she wore, and it was to these that her jewelry was limited. She had colored her cheeks with a light rouge, darkened her full lips with a deep red that somehow made the hazel of her eyes turn the color of gold. 

She shifted her balance on dark red heels, hands clasped behind her back, inexplicably shy. “Well?”

Jou ran a hand through his short hair, nervously fingering his glasses. “Suddenly, my suit looks really bland.”

Her laugh was soft and relaxed, and she kissed him lightly on the cheek, coming up on tiptoes to reach his height even with the added inches her shoes gave her. He had called them a taxi, which met them outside the apartment complex, its driver neglecting to complain about how long he had been kept waiting when he caught sight of her. Jou noticed this as well, placing his hand over Mimi’s on her lap throughout the ride, meeting the man’s eager gaze each time it lingered on the rear-view mirror. Mimi was not aware of any this, blissful in the moment as she always seemed to be, though he thought there was an anxiousness to her posture that he did not recognize. She brushed it off many times, or attempted to, but just as he started to ask her if she was feeling all right, they arrived. 

The converted theater was familiar to Mimi after having used it as a venue for previous catering events, including Koushiro’s parents’ party. It was the latter who met them outside the door, waving affectionately when Mimi emerged from the back of the cab. Beside him was a tall blond man with brilliant blue eyes, and Mimi thought he looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him. It was after Jou exclaimed excitedly when he saw Yamato that Mimi recognized him at last, and Jou bent to murmur in her ear, “I hope you don’t mind that I invited him to come. He’s been a bit lonely.”

This piqued her curiosity, and of course she didn’t mind, especially after Yamato handed her a small, wrapped present with a bright pink bow. She accepted it a bit too eagerly, making Yamato laugh, and she accompanied them into the smaller gallery at the rear of the theater. She paused for a moment at the entrance, breathless, amazed at how well the venue had turned out. The stringed star lights were wrapped around the velvet curtain rods all around the room, a full-service bar tucked into the corner where floor-to-ceiling windows opened into an enclosed outdoor space. Music played softly from the speakers affixed to each corner, and already the gallery was filling with friends and acquaintances. Her eyes drew to the vases of calla lilies arranged throughout the space, and she grinned at her boyfriend, hands clasped to her chest, “Everything’s beyond perfect, but the flowers—they’re so amazing! Did you put up the lilies here, too?”

But Jou shook his head, “Actually, those came delivered, and so were the ones this morning. I got you something else, though,” he offered a little shyly, shuffling his feet.

Mimi closed her mouth, cursing herself for putting him on the spot, and she locked arms with his. “And I’ll love it. But you know the rule; presents after the cake.” She looked around, curious. “Speaking of which….”

“He’s not here yet,” said another voice. Her former neighbor approached them, dressed up in a flattering purple gown, her hand perched on her hip exasperatedly. 

“Miyako!” Mimi threw her arms around her friend’s neck, hugging tightly. “You came!”

“Of course, I came!” said the younger woman, smiling prettily at her. When she warmly embraced Jou as well, Inoue Miyako muttered under her breath, “I know better than to be late to A Mimi Party.”

Jou swallowed his chuckle before his girlfriend could notice, gesturing to the bar. “Would the birthday girl like to do the honors?”

“I have been waiting for this all year,” she said with a flourish, marching unsteadily as she led the way. 

The bartender opened a large bottle of champagne, pouring stems for each of them, which they drank after a toast to an increasingly giddy Mimi. She slurped hers quickly, drawing an eyebrow raise from Jou and Miyako, but her eyes were focused on the doors across from the bar. It opened to reveal a group of women from her spin class, and Mimi smiled back, hiding her disappointment. She turned her back to the door, loudly calling for another round of champagne, waving away Jou’s suggestion that she maintain something like a pace to last the night. She nursed her second glass with a little more restraint, begrudgingly accepting that he was right, and after her third glance at the entrance she spun around, determined not to look back again. 

At that point, only Yamato remained with her at the bar; Jou and Miyako had gone to settle an issue with the gallery owner, who had some concerns about the light decorations, and Koushiro had recognized an acquaintance in the crowd and excused himself. In the brief silence, Mimi stole a glance up at the blond. His face was relaxed and peaceful, though his eyes withdrawn. She nudged him with her elbow. 

“You can’t come here and be unhappy.”

Yamato chuckled, shrugging, “I don’t mean to be. It’s just been a long week at work.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that today,” she murmured. “Hopefully you’ll have time to relax at the holidays.”

“This is a nice warm-up,” he said, gesturing to the party. “Thanks again for inviting me.”

She paused, wondering how much she should toe the line, but she had always been a lightweight and the third glass of champagne in her hand was loosening her lips before she could even try helping herself. “Jou says you’re lonely.”

His eyebrow arched, “I’m sorry?”

The alcohol sloshed a little as she pointed the glass towards her boyfriend across the room. “He said he asked you to come because you’ve been feeling lonely.”

Blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Ah, the pity invite. Those are always—,”

“Hey,” she poked him in the chest, startling him. “Friends look out for each other. That’s what he was doing. It’s not pity.”

He shut his mouth, lips a thin line, and turned back to his drink, his forearms resting on the bar counter. Mimi stood next to him, gripping her glass. Her glance stole back to the doors, and she started to ask, “How do you know T—?”

But he hadn’t been listening. Hunched over the counter, he took a long sip of his champagne and rubbed the bridge of his nose anxiously. “I just got out of a long relationship, and I guess I’m not handling it so well.”

She paused, distracted by his confession. She leaned close, lowering her voice gently. “I don’t think you’re supposed to handle something like that well. It’s hard for everyone.”

“I don’t think it’s been hard for her,” he said darkly, face turned away. But then, suddenly, his face was in his hands, and he slouched forward tiredly. “But I guess I didn’t make things easy for her, either.”

“I doubt that,” she said affectionately, because she thought that was what she ought to say. 

“I wasn’t always fair to her. And I thought—well, in any case, I think men want to be understood by someone, and women want someone to worship them,” he said.

To his great surprise, Mimi burst into laughter. She shook her head. “I’d hate that, and so would most women,” she paused, “and men, too. I don’t want to be worshipped by a man who’s blind to who I really am. I’d rather be seen for me, for all of me.”

Perhaps it was the slightly slurred sincerity in her voice, or the shining way her hazel eyes smiled at him, but Yamato relaxed into her as she patted his arm, deciding he liked this blunt and peculiar girl. “All of you’s not half bad,” he said slyly, and she grinned, tossing her hair back. 

“I think I’m gonna start wearing this dress more often. The attention I’m getting….”

He laughed, though it was deep and reserved, casting a pale hand over blue eyes that still looked withdrawn. 

She moved work out her hand from his arm to cover his fingers on the counter, squeezing affectionately. “These things take time, as hard as it is to hear that. But it will get better. Things always do.” Then she added with a confident flourish, aided by the buzzing in her head from the champagne as she took another sip, “It’s my birthday, anyhow, and I say it will, so it will.” 

In her enthusiasm, she took an awkward step back and her ankle twisted on the heel, her mouth forming a perfect circle in surprise. She collided with another person, tripping over the hem of her billowing skirts, grunting from the impact. She tilted her head back, heart skipping a nervous beat as strong hands wrapped around her waist to steady her, and found herself looking into a smiling, bespectacled face. 

“Maybe we should switch you to some water for a little bit,” said Jou.

Mimi straightened herself, pushing back from him with a hand to his chest, confused by the discontent that flooded her blushing skin. “I’m fine. I just— _ oh, no _ .”

Yamato’s cool blue eyes widened ever so slightly, while Jou blanched. Mimi glowered and slammed her champagne glass hard on the counter, slipping out of Jou’s grasp and marching towards the door. Dressed in tuxedo pants, a cummerbund, and nothing else, Daisuke puffed out his toned chest with his fists on narrow hips, standing like a superhero called to save an otherwise disastrously dull party, or at least that’s what he imagined any gathering was without him. She reached out to poke an angry finger into his throat, but then stopped herself, eyes settling on the ridiculously sparkly purple bowtie tied into a perfect knot around his neck. 

“You promised,” she seethed, unable to keep her voice from shaking, though she was sure it was the alcohol fueling her now.

“Hey, I’m still following your instructions! Besides, when Taichi called to tell me you rather liked the idea of me in a bowtie, how could I not fulfil your dreams?” He winked, “Just wait until he gets here; then you’ll really start—,”

She cut him off with a hiccup, mortified by a completely different image raking through her head now, and Daisuke laughed, sweeping her up into his arms with a warm, distracting hug. She blushed, struggling out of his tight embrace for the second time that day. There was a loud shout from behind them, where a crowd of partygoers had gathered to goggle at how creatively Daisuke chose to interpret Mimi’s strict clothing rules. 

“What on earth are you wearing?” said Miyako after she pushed herself to the front, her voice shrill and strangled.

“Ah, there you are,” said Daisuke, pulling back from Mimi with a cheeky grin. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

Miyako paled, sputtering, though Mimi noted how red her bespectacled friend had become under their friend’s mahogany gaze. When she took a frightened step back, Daisuke flexed his hands, advancing on her slowly. In the split second in which Miyako’s eyes adjusted to his state of half-undress, he had launched himself at her and she shrieked, sprinting away, and Mimi was struck by the accuracy of the visions she’d had about this exact moment. 

It was only when Daisuke did rush off that her eyes settled on the one other aspect of his attire that made her choke, clapping a hand over her mouth. Koushiro ducked his head under an arm that shook with laughter, while Jou frowned, “Daisuke, what’s on your back?”

The man ceased his chase as Miyako dove behind Mimi. He craned his neck awkwardly, bending his spine to reach around, spinning as he did so, like dog after its own tail. “What? What’s there?”

Koushiro and Mimi exchanged looks, the latter giggling, and Daisuke increased his attempts at snatching at whatever they were laughing about, face fixed in a cross scowl. Amused but sympathetic, Jou grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to stop fussing, and pulled out his phone, snapping a picture of Daisuke’s shoulders. He showed the image to the younger man, whose jaw dropped in surprise. There, across his upper back, plastered in black temporary ink, was the phrase,  **_If found, please clothe._ **

Daisuke cried bloody murder. “Who the hell did this?”

Miyako peeked around Mimi’s shoulders, and her giggling only worsened Daisuke’s temper. He rounded on Mimi, who could no longer contain herself, bursting out, “It was Taichi’s idea!”

Koushiro threw up his hands, backing away when Daisuke turned to him. “He did it when you were taking a nap at the store yesterday; he said he’d come up with a way to keep you grounded just in case—,”

“I had nothing to do with it, I swear! It was all Taichi!”

But Daisuke heard none of it. His voice was strangled as he narrowed his wild eyes at her. “Don’t try to hide it! You and Taichi are always pranking me—you two are the worst together—,”

“Or the best together,” suggested Koushiro with another laugh, tearing up.

Jou stiffened a little, slipping a hand around Mimi’s waist. “Let’s get you that water.”

Giggling, she allowed him to lead her from the others, who tried to calm Daisuke down amidst fits of laughter themselves, accepting the glass of iced water he handed her. She saw the way his brown wrinkled as he glanced back at them, biting his lip. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling. “It was just a joke.”

“I don’t mind the joke,” Jou said quickly, not wanting to be misunderstood, but not certain what was bothering him more. “I just—I mean, when would you have even gotten it done with all the work you’ve been doing?”

“You know how Daisuke’s always sneaking in naps at work on the slow days.” She smiled at the memory of this particular nap, rubbing her hands together evilly. “This will teach him.”

Jou glanced into the crowds, casually letting his gaze wander over each assembled face. “I’m sure it will, but don’t you think it’s crossing the line a little bit, putting a tattoo on his body without permission?”

“It’s temporary. It’ll wash out in a few weeks.”

“That’s not the point, Mimi.”

She frowned, amusement lost. “It’s a game. Daisuke knows that. Taichi and I are always playing games on him, and he does it right back.”

He was not sure how else to bring it up, so he decided on matter-of-fact honesty, blunt. “You didn’t used to play games like that before you met Taichi.”

“He is a bit of an ingenious mastermind at it,” she admitted with a fondness that made him uncomfortable. She did not see the way he shifted awkwardly, fingering his glasses, and only sighed. “I thought you liked that I can be silly sometimes.”

“How do you expect to be silly and be taken seriously about that apprenticeship?”

The question stunned her. Her mouth fell open, but then she closed it tightly, staring up into his face. His cheeks flushed a light pink, not from embarrassment, but from slight regret. He did not intend to be so honest about his reservations, but he couldn’t let her go on not knowing what her behavior might cost her. 

He lowered his voice. “Places like those restaurants want people who are serious about their work, Mimi. A lot of opportunities are riding on this for you, and I just want to be sure you are staying focused. I want your dreams to come true.”

He had wanted to sound gentle and understanding, but her face was turned away and he could not see her expression. He placed a hand on her bare shoulder, startled when he felt her muscles stiffen under his touch. When she raised her chin finally, she was smiling in a strange way, easily shrugging out of his arms. 

“I know you do. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apol—,”

“I’m going to get some air,” she interrupted with a light voice, already stepping towards the doors before he could stop her. She tossed him a wide grin just as she slipped outside, “You all better have my cake ready when I get back!”

She did not wait for him to respond, and her chest felt tight as she ducked by a few well-wishers on their way inside. A small smile passed her lips, nodding politely to her friends, making up an excuse as she hurried along. She only stopped when she had already made it outside, standing on the sidewalk in the cold night air. Gathering up the skirts of her dress, she flounced down onto the curb, shivering. She could feel the corners of her eyes stinging, her lip trembling, but she grit her teeth against a potential onslaught of emotions, taking a deep breath. Searching in her purse, her hand curled around the small mobile phone and pulled it into her frozen lap. Nervous fingers scrolled through her inbox, selecting their last text message, but her fingers stopped when she went to write him. 

With a shuddering sigh, her throat closing with unshed tears, she slowly typed out the small message. 

**_Hey! You’re missing all the fun! Where are you?_ **

Adding a smiling emoticon for good measure, she hit the send button then waited, staring at the screen. The message was delivered successfully, and less than a second later, the notification turned into a miniature check icon, indicating that it had been opened and read, with the timestamp next to it in tiny letters. She continued watching the screen for several more minutes, her breath hitched, and waited for a response that did not come. Tears slipping finally, she threw the phone back in the purse with a furious cry and buried her face in her hands. 

It took her a moment to compose herself, wiping her cheeks and evening her breathing. She checked her makeup in the pocket mirror from her purse, reapplying her lipstick carefully, then stood and returned to her birthday party. She smiled at Jou from across the room, meeting his worried gaze with a carelessly happy one of her own, but stayed near the doors rather than rejoin him. She nodded at Daisuke who was shimmying around the dance floor with a flustered Miyako, who kept trying not to laugh, lest the maroon-haired man mistake her smile as an indication of enjoyment. She grinned at Koushiro, who waved from the bar where he was talking to Yamato animatedly. She surveyed the entire party, her hazel gaze sweeping through the entire room before eventually, as it always did, returning to the doors beside her. But it didn’t matter how many times she let her gaze linger there at the entrance, stealing glances throughout the night. 

He never came. 


	10. Like that could save you from your past

 

His first sensation the next morning was delicious and utter bliss. 

His first thought was that leaving the bed, both at that moment and ever again, for any reason, would be the stupidest mistake of his entire life. Why would he leave? Everything about this was perfect. The shades were drawn and the thermostat had settled to just the right toasty level and every direction he turned was met with snuggly pillows and thick blankets and silken hair and—

_ Wait _ .

His eyes snapped open. 

He found himself with his face nestled against the soft curve of a neck that smelled like cinnamon, lips brushing bare shoulders and calloused fingers loosely gripping a smooth waist. Shifting carefully, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared down onto a beautiful face curled tightly against his chest. 

His heart stopped. 

“ _ Shit _ .”

His curse stirred her awake, but she did not open her eyes, only wiggling for the covers to pull over them. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured, voice hoarse and scratchy. He winced as she turned to kiss his forearm, smiling softly, and settled herself back into him. A paralyzing dread clawed through his chest, and he could feel the panic sweltering inside his head as the reality of the situation came to a grinding stop. 

His gasp was shaky and tense, “Mi—!”

An alarm clock suddenly sounded, throwing him back with a start, and he slipped over the covers and collided with the floor, disorientated. Reaching for the nightstand, she turned the alarm off with an annoyed grumble, muttering about the early hour. She sat up with a long sigh, pulling the sheets around her. Stifling a yawn, she at last met his wide-eyed gaze and only then seemed to see the petrified expression on his stunned face. 

She blinked several times, the realization slowly dawning. 

He immediately scrambled to his feet and threw himself towards her on the bed, clapping a hand over her mouth before the strangled shriek could escape. 

A knock on the closed bedroom door announced a new voice. “Miyako? Are you awake?”

She squeaked, her frantic, warm breath on his fingers as she mouthed a response that the human ear could not possibly understand. Inoue Chizuru heard the squealing in any case, and it was apparently not out of the ordinary for the youngest of the Inoue siblings to reply to questions with unintelligible grunts, so she did not investigate further. Instead, she barked, “It’s your turn for the shower, so get up!”

There was some shuffling of feet, and then another sharp rap on the door, followed by a different voice as Inoue Momoe reminded crossly, “And don’t forget we have dinner with the parents tonight, so don’t be late coming home!” 

Miyako waited for both sisters’ footsteps to fade before raising her fingers to the hand still pressed over her mouth and sinking her sharp nails into the skin. 

He yelped, shaking out his hands. “What was that for?”

She hissed back, furious, “What are you doing here?”

Still trying to sort that answer out for himself, he gestured wildly about the room, exasperated, pointing to each scattered item of clothing and tossed away shoe as though they boasted a sufficient enough response such a question. This was clearly the wrong thing to do, and her face turned a delicate shade of purple as a vein throbbed in an otherwise pretty forehead. Her voice was lethal. “Get. Out.”

“Shouldn’t I wait until we’re sure your family won’t kill me?”

She did not look the least bit bothered by the possibility of such an event occurring, and he shut his mouth. 

“Get. Out Now,” she threatened, speaking so slowly and deadly that he found himself rising to follow her cold instructions before he could even tell himself to obey. “And put your clothes on!” she cried out, hurtling a pillow at him. 

“I’m tryna find them!” he started to protest, annoyed, but then stopped. “How can you even tell I’m not wearing anything?”

“I’m nearsighted, not blind!”

“Then why are you squinting right now”—his eyes widened with delight, smirk unbearably devilish—”unless you’re tryna get one last good look, aren’t you?”

Her scream was bloodcurdling, “ _ Get out _ !”

The door flung open. “Miyako!” 

She clapped a hand over her mouth and he dropped to the floor like a sack of rice. 

Both sisters stood in the doorway: Momoe fuming with her hands on her hips with her short bangs tucked behind her years with yellow plastic barrettes and wearing jeans with a cropped yellow tunic, and Chizuru lingering behind her, smartly dressed in a neat business suit and hair pulled into a tight bun. The latter’s face was contorted in irritation, expression assuming the signature Inoue glower. “What on earth are you yelling about?”

“I’m not even dressed!” the young woman whined, swallowing her body up with the blankets and rolling into a burrito, her face squashed into the pillow. “You guys can’t just barge in like this! I have no privacy here!”

“You can have privacy when you can afford to live on your own,” Chizuru scowled, bespectacled gaze judging every corner of the small bedroom, “or when you can prove that you can take care of yourself at all. Honestly, you’re not in school anymore. Don’t be so messy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do! I’m an adult—,”

Momoe snapped, “Adults don’t scream like banshees for no good reason.”

Miyako groaned, “Fine, I’m getting up, just go, please!”

Chizuru put up her hands, “Don’t get snippy at us. We’re just trying to make sure you aren’t late for work. And we’re hoping you aren’t either, Daisuke, but high marks for such a well thought-out hiding spot.”

With a wincing sigh, he crawled out from under the bed where he had dived, intending to hide, but missed by an obnoxiously wide margin. He ducked behind the bedside chair, hoping to conceal something of his naked dignity, suddenly self-conscious as he peered around the mattress corner to grin sheepishly at the three women staring at him now. 

“Ladies, ladies, we really need to stop meeting like this,” he chirped with good humor, deciding cheery optimism and blatant denial of reality was the only available route to take. “Doing well?”

“Very,” said Momoe, and it took him another second to realize her gaze was lingering on him a bit too long. 

Miyako noticed this, too, and she sat up with a scowl, while Daisuke balked, suddenly quite warm. Taking advantage of the argument that then broke out between the sisters, he scrambled for his pants, scurrying on his knees to the safety of Miyako’s closet to pull them on. Stuffing the cummerbund and purple bowtie in the pockets of his pants, he found one of Miyako’s university sweatshirts and slipped that over his torso, grateful that the girl had a penchant for oversized bulky winter wear. He cautiously reentered the bedroom a moment later, but not before Momoe had completely closed the door. She winked slyly at him as the door shut, and he swallowed the uncomfortable lump in his throat, gaze settling on the young woman on the bed with her face in her hands. 

“I think they like me,” he said to break the awkward silence.

She groaned, “Why do we always do this?”

“…’Cause we’re good at it?”

“That’s not a reason,” she bristled, shooting him a look. Then her expression seemed to soften, and she sighed, fingers anxiously curling around long hair. “You’ll be late if you don’t leave now, and you know how picky Mimi is about her shop.”

Daisuke shrugged, hands in his pockets. “She’s not in today. I’ve got to prep a few deliveries for tomorrow and run through the inventory, but technically the shop is closed. It always is on Mimi’s birthday.”

Miyako rolled her eyes, amused. “That was yesterday. It’s not her birthday anymore.”

“Ah, but it’s still her birthday week. And month. And year. And millennium.” 

A laugh escaped her lips, and she shook her head. Relaxed now that she was, too, he picked up the dressing gown thrown over the back of the bedside chair and handed it over. She accepted it gratefully, slipping it over her shivering body and wrapping it tight to keep the warmth close. “It was a fun party,” she said with fond recollection. “I’m glad I could go.”

“Me, too,” he said and she glanced at him. He recovered immediately and winked to turn the unexpected honesty into a passing joke, sauntering across the room. “Anyway, don’t cry too much when I leave.”

She makes a face, tossing her hair with that air of nonchalance he always found confounding. “Don’t make any bets, Motomiya.” 

“You know me, I always go down swinging.” 

She clicked her tongue in disapproval and shuffled into a pair of slippers. Peeked out into the apartment, she gestured for him to follow her to the front door, while he amused himself at the stealthy way she pounced from corner to corner.

“No one’s here, Miyako—,”

“Keep your voice down!”

He could feel the annoyance creep up at her exaggeration. “The apartment’s empty.”

“But the building isn’t,” she pointed out, cracking the door open to peer into the hallway. 

He snuck up behind her, bracing a hand against the door and forcing it shut as he leaned against it. She glowered up at him, tugging uselessly at the knob, while he cocked his head to the side. “You know,  _ since _ Mimi’s not coming in today, and I’ve got the whole place to myself, you should drop by. I’ll make you lunch. Or dinner.” He winked, “Or breakfast.”

Miyako’s mouth pulled into a small, tight frown, and she pressed the tip of a slender finger into his throat. “You listen to me. You were never here, and you can never prove it. This is the last time we let this happen, do you understand?”

Neglecting to point out how often she had given him that same speech, he stuck out his bottom lip in a pronounced, silly pout. “I thought you liked my cooking?”

She put her entire weight into yanking the door open, and he stumbled in surprise, losing his footing in her unexpectedly impressive display of strength. Wordlessly pointing into the hallway, she waited with pursed lips and Daisuke made a big deal of dragging his feet outside. 

“Denial is not a good look on you, Miyako.”

She shoved him outside. “Remember, don’t tell Mimi—,”

“She’s going to find out about us eventually—,”

“Stop!” Her voice is high-pitched, bordering on the hysterical as she flinched and grabbed him by the collar of the sweatshirt, shaking hard. “There is no  _ ‘us’ _ , we are not an  _ ‘us’ _ , got it?”

“Okay, okay!” He pulled back and she seemed satisfied by the way he gulped, straightening when she let him go. And then suddenly he dipped his face towards her and stole a kiss from her forehead, “Until next time, pookie.” 

“ _ Daisuke _ !”

He crowed, delighted with himself, “Isn’t it great that after all our illicit meetings, I’m still not tired of you yelling my name?”

Her hand darted out to slap his shoulder, but he ducked it easily, laughing, and skidded into the hallway. The door slammed to coincide with her last squeal of anguish, and he turned towards the elevator, chuckling in satisfaction. 

“The ol’ walk-of-shame, is it?” 

Daisuke glanced to the left to see a tall, good-looking blond man standing outside the flat two doors down from the one the Inoue sisters shared. He was carrying a gym bag over one shoulder and a basketball under the other arm, and despite his sweaty appearance, he appeared entirely amused by Daisuke’s equally ragged state, albeit for an entirely different reason. His dark blue eyes winked, and Daisuke thought he looked vaguely familiar, but then the meaning of his words registered and he grimaced. He opened his mouth to snap at the stranger to mind his own business, but then the man spoke again, cutting him off. 

“For what it’s worth,” he said cheerfully, “I think her sisters like you better than the other guy.” He smiled, nodding his head in a goodbye and shutting the apartment door behind him. 

Daisuke stood in the hallway for a moment longer, feeling the weight of strange emptiness pressing around his ears, breath hitched. 

_ Other guy…? _

Scowling, he shook his head, running frustrated fingers over the back of his neck, and began the short journey back to his own flat by train. Within an hour he was back at the front door of the catering shop, still grumbling as he kicked the dirt off his shoes on the outside mat and pulled the door hard behind him, leaving the closed sign plainly visible. The store was empty and cold, and he punched the light switch, florescent tubes flickering to life as he threw his knapsack and coat down on the front desk. He went through the morning work routine with as much passive-aggressive peevishness as he could allow while alone and unobserved, and it wasn’t until the printer finally spit out the inventory lists and he stood in front of the first row of shelves in the freezer that he stopped. He stared at the lines of frozen bags and trays of ice with resentment that had turned, somehow, into anything but.  

He pitched forward, forehead colliding heavily with the edge of the plastic shelf. Cursing his own stupidity, and more annoyed that he was even bothered in the first place, he seemed momentarily content to leave his pounding head stuck inside the freezer for the rest of the morning, miserably resigned to performing great dramatics even in private, until his ears picked up the sound of a violent tapping on the front door. 

“We’re closed!” he shouted without turning away from the open freezer, his face impossibly stiff from the cold exposure. 

The knocking only grew louder, and Daisuke clenched his teeth together. This was not the day to mess with him, not after that idiot blond stranger had to ruin everything that had ever been fun. 

“We are closed! Read the sign!”

There was a pause—then the doorbell rang, and Daisuke lost it. 

“ _ I said, we’re closed _ ,  _ asshole _ !” he screamed, spinning around to conclude his tirade with the appropriate lewd hand gesture—and then he stopped, jaw to the floor.

Koushiro was standing outside the doors, leaning heavily against the glass. Around his shoulders hung a Taichi so disheveled that Daisuke almost didn’t recognize his friend. His browns eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were a wrinkly mess, as though he had slept in them, or had never slept at all. The dark navy suit latched onto flushed, perspiring skin and the front of his white button-up dress shirt was stained with dried sick. He couldn’t stand by himself, but he still tried, struggling to pull away from a visibly anxious Koushiro ready to topple under the weight of his friend at any moment. The redhead’s frantic gaze pleaded with Daisuke, and the latter dropped the clipboard, hurrying to the doors. 

“What the hell happened?” he exclaimed, hoisting Taichi’s other arm over his own shoulders and helping Koushiro drag the man inside. 

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Koushiro rasped, dumping Taichi unceremoniously onto one of the lounge chairs at the front of the store. “I’m sorry to come here, but I didn’t know where else to take him. This was the closest place from the office.”

“Icun hear you,” slurred Taichi, sliding to the floor in his clumsy fumbling. Daisuke grabbed his shoulders and shoved him upright, and his head hit the back of the chair with a smack that made the other men wince. But Taichi just kept grinning, feeling nothing.

He reeked, and Daisuke was stunned. “Are you—?” 

“Yep,” declared Taichi with pride. “Im ‘stremely happy and ‘stremely drunk. H’re you?”

Koushiro’s face darkened and Daisuke glanced at the clock on the wall, its small hand inching forward to the early hour. He stared at Taichi’s flustered, red face with something like disbelief. “You showed up to work like this.” He had meant for it to be a question, desperately trying to make sense of a side of Taichi he had never seen before, but it sounded like a statement instead, his first admission that everything was wrong.

In response, Taichi just laughed, and Koushiro sank into the chair beside him, arm outstretched to help balance his friend as the man swayed in his chair. Still trying to process what was happening, Daisuke went to the sink to fill a glass of water, then thought better of it and turned on the coffee machine, too. He carried the water back to the front lounge, but Taichi took one look at it and his face paled, grin slipping. Daisuke recognized that expression at once, backing away, and Koushiro grabbed Taichi’s arm, lifting him to his unstable feet. 

“Over there,” said Daisuke, pointing to the restrooms, then quickly set the glass down to help.

They reached the bathroom just as Taichi’s legs finally gave away and he dove for the toilet, retching. Koushiro yanked several napkins from the wall dispenser, wetting them with tap water. Taichi grabbed for them without aim, grunting, his back smacking against the thin wall of the stall while Daisuke reached over him to press the flush lever. Taichi hung his head in his hands, panting, elbows on knees brought close into his chest, and Koushiro exchanged worried looks with Daisuke in the silence that fell. 

He had never been good at emotional situations. He preferred to rise above them, charging like a crazed bulldozer through barriers to bliss and unaffected pleasure, and whenever reality reared its head from across another wall, Daisuke just dug underneath and pressed onwards. But there wasn’t a way to press on from here, no matter how many weeks they’d spent ignoring the circumstances of their meeting, the origins of their friendship, the ugly, lonely elephant in the room. It had all been going so well, but now it felt vaguely like the world had spun to a halt, and everything had been thrown off balance, and Daisuke couldn’t catch up.

“What should we do?” he whispered nervously now, eyeing Taichi’s slumped and still form as though he expected the man to either combust into a pool of alcoholic misery or, worse, cry.

Koushiro already had his phone out. “I left Yamato a voicemail, but I’ll try Hikari’s mobile.”

“Who?”

“His sister.”

“Oh.” Daisuke chewed his lip. “Well, if you can’t find his friends—I mean, do you think I should call Mimi?”

Koushiro paused, thinking quickly.

Daisuke added, “This is her store. I don’t care if he stays here, but I feel like she should know what’s going on.”

The redhead seemed to hesitate, but then resigned himself. “Okay. We’ll need all the reinforcements we can get. I don’t know how to get him home, and I’ve still got to go back to work and deal with the office.”

Daisuke lowered his voice at that comment, morbidly intrigued. “He really just showed up like this was a normal workday?”

“He was worse there,” said Koushiro flatly. “The security guards were holding him down in the lobby when I got in. I just had enough time to grab him and come here. Our boss isn’t an intolerant man, but you just don’t—,” and he stopped, shaking his head. His voice was strained, “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He was fine yesterday,” remembered Daisuke. “I mean, he seemed tired but—what could have happened?”

Koushiro’s eyes flashed. “She happened,” he said, voice cold. Daisuke glanced at him, surprised by the defensive anger and frustration in a man who seemed so calm and put together otherwise. “Look at what she did to him.”

Taichi hadn’t moved, face still in his hands, and Daisuke swallowed thickly, stomach churning. “Well,” he said after a moment, flipping open his phone and searching through his messages, “we’ll figure it out later. We need to get him home first. I’ll text Mimi; you call this sister lady. Tell her if she can come here, that’s better.”

Taichi groaned, shaking his head violently, and Daisuke realized with a start that he had been listening to them the whole time, or at least he had heard enough of what mattered. “No—not ‘Kari—dun wan’her ta get ‘pset—,”

“Then Mimi,” said Daisuke, already writing the text. 

He didn’t protest but only grunted into his hands, fingers gripping his hair. It was a long moment before he spoke again, voice like a tired child. “Yam’to?”

“I called him, Taichi,” promised Koushiro, but his friend did not seem to hear. So he tried again, in a softer voice, “What happened?”

Taichi stirred, raising his head at last. He took a shaky breath, “D’yano what ‘sterday was?”

Daisuke sighed, remembering the party, “Yeah, Mimi’s birthday. I think she was pissed you weren’t there, but—,”

He ignored him, interrupting loudly, “’sterday was th’ day I ‘sked her ter marry me. One year ‘go ‘sterday.” He grinned, shaking his head like a bad dream.

Koushiro lowered his phone to his lap, while Daisuke fell silent at once, lump growing in his throat.

Taichi went on, “D’yano what’lse happn’d ‘sterday?” Without waiting for an answer, he slumped forward, struggling to reach into his pants pocket, and pulled out a small letter. The paper was crumpled so much the fibers had become soft and leathery, as though it had been opened and read many times. He waved the sheet at Daisuke, pressing it into the man’s hands roughly. 

Daisuke met Koushiro’s concerned gaze, hesitating. Taichi saw the wordless exchange and his expression hardened. His fingers grasped the letter in Daisuke’s hand and shoved it at him, pushing the younger man back, voice booming. “ _ Readit _ .”

“Taichi—,”

“Give it here,” interrupted Koushiro in a calm voice. He put his phone down and took the letter from Daisuke, who remained visibly uncomfortable by the gravity of the moment. The man’s dark eyes skimmed the contents quickly, and there was no change on his face when he raised his chin again. Avoiding Daisuke’s gaze, he folded the paper and stared at Taichi, who grinned back at him deliriously. 

“Innit funny?” he giggled.

“No,” answered Koushiro. His sigh was deep and pained, voice flat. “No, it’s not funny.”

Taichi sank lower against the stall door, doubled over in a fit of laughter that he couldn’t control, his heart pushing to escape a chest so tight it caved into him, making him feel impossibly small and unbearably hollow. He lost his balance and fell facedown, yanking away from their hands when they tried to help him up. He kicked them both away, struggling to find his balance on his own, still shaking from irrepressible laughter, crawling pitifully on the cold linoleum floor, his head spinning and the world turning inside out. Because it  _ was _ funny, it was—it was funny how nothing made sense anymore—nothing was real—everything was gone—everything was over—

And then he felt familiar soft hands reach to cup his face, and in between another rasping gasp of breathless laughter, his eyes found hers. 

“She married someone else,” he whispered in a fleeting moment of sobriety so real and so painful he couldn’t breathe.

Mimi’s arms slipped around his neck and she pulled him into her lap, cradling his head against her chest.

“She marr’d s’mone else,” Taichi repeated, face pressed into the curve of Mimi’s neck, heartbeat quickening in a panic, walls closing in around his throat, and in all his feverish laughter he did not yet realize he was crying. “’snly been six m’nths—and—she—marr’d—s’mone—else—,” 

Koushiro’s face was pale, and Daisuke leaned forward, “Taichi….” 

Mimi glanced at him, shaking her head. 

Desperate to do something, terrified of what was happening, struck by the possibility that this could be him—suddenly, Daisuke jumped to his feet, voice hoarse. “I’ll get the coffee,” he stammered, rushing from the room before anyone could respond.

He strode quickly to the kitchen counter, lifting the steaming hot pot of coffee from its holder. He stood there, holding the container for a long moment, breathless, and then he dropped it quickly, launching for his cell phone. She did not answer, and he knew she wouldn’t; she always let her phone go to voicemail at work. He waited impatiently for the beep, and then the words fell before he could think to stop them, even if he wanted to. 

“Hey, it’s Dais. Listen, about—about this ‘us’ thing, we—we need to talk. Just hear me out one time, okay? Call me back.”

He hung up, dizzy from the adrenaline, and glanced back at the restrooms. He gripped the mobile tightly, shaking.  _ Please don’t make me be the other guy. _


	11. History is like gravity

 

Masking her disgust with a light cough, Hikari picked up a ceramic hippopotamus colored with bright purple and pink polka dots, sprouting a pair of tiny, disproportionate wings over fat, rounded shoulders and a rather voluptuous torso decorated with painted chest hair. “What about this?”

Her brother peeked out from around a kitchen cabinet, squinting at the atrocity in her hands. His expression melted. “You made that for me!”

“Oh!” She gave a jolt, guilt rushing into her bones, and she raked her mind trying to remember the event. She turned the little statue over in her small fingers, a shiver of dread running through her skin. What on earth had she been thinking painting something this obnoxious?

Dark brown eyes narrowed, and he sounded hurt. “You don’t remember.” 

“Well, I think I—,”

He broke into a mischievous grin, cackling. “I’m just kidding; you didn’t make it. It’s from that year Dad and I sent each other gag gifts from thrift stores.” 

She relaxed at once, partially annoyed at his ability to rile her just for a laugh, but mostly relieved her otherwise moderately successful art skills had never touched something this ridiculous. 

Taichi did not notice the look she threw him, still chuckling. “That was a great gift exchange, one for the books. Somewhere in these boxes, I’ve also got a plush toy in the shape of the gonorrhea virus, a deck of cards with nude women in body paint, and a glow-in-the-dark constellation star chart that’s not shy about imagining what’s really going on with the Seven Sisters and the rest of Orion’s Belt area.”

Hikari remembered each of them all too well. 

It was during Taichi’s first year at university, his absence making their small family home feel intolerably empty. To soothe the physical loss, and tapping into that inappropriate humor Yagami men had developed into an impeccable science, their father Susumu had resorted to tongue-in-cheek care packages that his eldest son had been all too happy to match and exceed with wacky finds of his own. Yuuko, the long-suffering mother, had tolerated the increasingly suggestive gift exchange for months, believing it was what father and son needed to bond—until a gold-casted dildo touted to be an exact replica of the Prime Minister’s shlong arrived, and Yuuko put her foot down. 

Hikari shook her head at the memories and placed the hippopotamus into the donations box. “Then back to the thrift shop it will go.”

Taichi saluted. “May it find happiness in the great beyond.” 

“Godspeed, little guy,” she said, closing the box, “or little girl.”

“I haven’t figured it out either,” said Taichi as he returned his attention to the cabinets. “But I never did like the way it looked at me.”

She braced her hands on narrow hips, gazing about the apartment. Each corner had been upturned, every drawer examined, every shelf cleared out. Packing tape, bubble wrap, and newspaper covered the floor space remaining, while stacks of variously-sized boxes stationed themselves in key locations around the flat, ready to take in whatever knick-knack still left to pack. After saying farewell to the hippopotamus, she had finished the last box in the living room, the bath and bedroom long since done.

The only room left was the kitchen. 

He had been there for an hour now, going through his possessions at a pace that Hikari suspected was deliberately torturous. The tiled floor was now cluttered with an assortment of utensils, measuring cups, and dishcloths, and Hikari marveled at the amount of kitchenware he had managed to collect over the years despite demonstrating zero prowess in the realm of food preparation outside of the microwave and one-pot skillet wonders. 

With a loud sigh, he perched back on the balls of his heels, lifting his phone from his pocket and taking a picture of an egg beater before tossing it into a trash bag. 

Suppressing the instinct to admonish him, she instead inclined her head to the right, wrinkling her nose. “What are you doing?”

“Mimi doesn’t like when I text her at work, so I’ve been texting her at work. Check it out.” 

He waved her over, finishing up the last in his constant stream of picture messages. Hikari moved around the counter and bent behind him, peering over his shoulder. 

The screen depicted a dimly lit and terribly cropped picture of the egg beater handle, which he had edited to include the caption,  **_twerked out, so beat_ ** . He scrolled upwards, and in a rapid slew of blurry examples, her eyes caught clear glimpses of a tablespoon ( **_i spoon there4 i am_ ** ); a skillet ( **_2 fry is human_ ** ) followed by a stovetop grill press ( **_2 grill, divine_ ** ); a plastic noodle strainer ( **_y do i get the feeling my life is passing right thru me_ ** ); and a set of bamboo coasters ( **_coast with me if u want 2 live_ ** ). 

Hikari fixed her expression into bemused interest, careful to watch her words. “Don’t torment her with your bad puns, Taichi. You know she’s busy.”

“How dare you. I am the punniest punner.” 

She rapped the back of her fingers lightly against his cheek, and he turned the screen off on the phone. 

“Besides, this is what she gets for being too  _ busy _ to help me.” He scrunched up his nose at what he believed was a terribly poor excuse, feigning an annoyance that Hikari was not sure was unreal. 

“That’s because no one in their right mind would voluntarily help someone else move apartments.”

They glanced at the front door, where a grumpy, lanky blond in washed out jeans and a faded red sweatshirt was struggling to push a wobbly hand truck over the doormat. He succeeded just as Hikari rose to help him, wiping a flushed forehead with the back of his hand. 

“ _ You’re _ here,” Taichi pointed out with a chuckle.

“I haven’t been in my right mind in decades,” grumbled Willis, kicking off his shoes as he stepped over boxes to reach them in the kitchen. “I thought you said you’d be done by the time we brought the car back?”

Taichi observed with mild apprehension the way Willis’ hand brushed the back of Hikari’s neck, curling over thin brown wisps of hair. Ignoring the instinct to disapprove, he waved nonchalantly at the amount of material he had to sort through, as though it were clear that he had been given an obnoxiously difficult task to begin with. “I think you’re failing to see the real problem.”

“That you’re a hoarder?” Willis’ sky blue eyes scanned the haphazard kitchen, face wrinkled in disapproval. 

“That would be putting it lightly,” said another voice, and Hikari waved from around her boyfriend’s shoulder. 

Sora smiled back at her, pausing at the entrance of the kitchen to whip her short red hair into an even shorter ponytail. Her grin faltered when she saw the little progress made, and her sigh mirrored the discontent on Willis’ face exactly. “Taichi, you have to be out of here by three o’clock, remember?”

“I’ve got lots of time,” he said dismissively, picking up a butter knife and taking a picture of it. 

“No, you’ve got precisely forty minutes of time,” she groaned, “and why are you taking pictures of things?”

“It’s a game he’s playing with Mimi,” explained Hikari, relieved that Sora was there to wring some sense into her brother. 

Right on cue, Sora’s hands went on her hips and her round eyes narrowed. “You’re what?”

Taichi gulped. 

Briefly wondering if she should be more careful what she wished for, Hikari tugged on Willis’ arm and already started taking several steps away. “We’re going to go load the finished boxes,” she said. 

“And miss another epic Takenouchi smack down?”

“ _ Willis _ —,”

“Wait, take me with you,” said Taichi, recognizing the flashing glint in his friend’s eye as she advanced on him.

“You brought this on yourself, Tai,” said Hikari in a resigned voice, pushing a still protesting Willis out of the kitchen. 

Her brother yelled after the pair as they darted back into the living room, “I’m filling your entire flat with sexually- ambiguous ceramic hippos, ‘Kari! Just you wait!”

Sora had enough forethought to hit the pause on her temper until Hikari had secured the boxes onto the hand truck and Willis was steering it back out the door towards the elevator, keeping her fiery gaze on the suddenly bashful man crouching on the kitchen floor. The door shut, and she let him squirm in silence for a moment longer. Then she held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

“Are you seriously going to confiscate my phone? What is this, grade school?”

“ _ You’re _ the one still stuck in grade school,” she corrected icily. Before he could blink, she had pounced, diving for the phone. He wrenched his arm away, twisting out of her reach, and they collided with the cabinets behind him. “Stop—fighting—me!” 

“Never!” He shoved her back, scrambling, mobile safely tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. 

She stood again, face red. “We all gave up our entire Saturday to help you move, and you’re sitting around playing a stupid game?”

“You look like a cherry popsicle.”

Sora glowered, which did not help to dismiss the comparison. “I really wish you’d grow up, Taichi.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Remember when you hurled spaghetti sauce at me because I said it was spicy? Should I be adult like that?”

“You didn’t  _ say _ it was spicy; you  _ spat _ everything out into my flower pot—,”

Taichi winced, confidence dwindling a little. “You only win arguments because your memory is freakishly exact.”

Her jaw muscle twitched. “It was last week.”

As usual, he did not seem to grasp her point, dismissively waving her off and picking up the last cardboard box from the living room. He set it on the kitchen counter, filling it up with little care. 

Shaking her head, she approached him, taking out the saucepan to wrap in bubbled paper. “It will be good for you, the new apartment.”

Taichi spoke casually, unaffected, “I always do things that are good for me.”

“Mm-hm,” but she was smiling now, so he relaxed. 

“Don’t go getting any crazy ideas, though. Just because I’m now living within walking distance of your place, that doesn’t mean I want more of your killer spaghetti. Once was enough.”

“I’ll have you know I get a lot of compliments about that sauce.”

He laughed, “From who?”

She ducked her face behind a blender, pretending to inspect it for dents and scratches. His dark brown eyes followed her nervous movements, and the smile slipped a little. Then he recovered, teasing out another grin. “You met someone.”

“It’s really recent,” she said at once and a little too quickly.

“If he thinks your cooking is good, then it must be,” he replied, and Sora lobbed a salt shaker at him. He caught it easily, shaking his head with a smirk. “How’d you meet?”

“He’s one of my dad’s research assistants.” Her cheeks were pink, and she was annoyed at herself for feeling so shy. Averting her gaze, she carried the finished box into the living room, setting it on the floor by the door. 

“Ah,” said Taichi, sounding awkward himself, sidestepping the couch as he carried a plastic bin of tableware and set on top of the cardboard moving box.

Her stare settled on him, studying his face carefully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a noncommittal sound, Sora. It means nothing.”

“So you don’t have anything to say?” she asked coolly. 

He did not miss the tone of voice, but he was not interested in taking the bait. Instead, he fell back on the couch, stretching his legs before him and his arms above him, rubbing the back of his head. “If he’s good to you, then I’m happy. And you call me the second he isn’t, you know that.”

Her expression softened, and she punched his shoulder lightly, collapsing into the seat beside him with her legs curled underneath her. “I know.” Tucking her chin in a palm, she added in a softer voice, “Have you talked to him recently?”

“He is my best friend, Sora.”

“You’re mine, and we can go weeks without talking when things get busy,” she pointed out, bristling a little when she reminded herself of this seemingly unavoidable consequence of growing up. 

“I talk to you about the important things,” he said. 

“Sometimes I don’t want to hear just the important things, Tai. Sometimes I want to hear about everything else, too.”

“All right.” He scrunched up his face thoughtfully. “Daisuke sliced his thumb open and fainted into the cake at a birthday party he was catering. I turned all the dishcloths pink when I put my red handkerchief in the laundry for a joke, and Mimi wouldn’t let me past the front desk for a week. Koushiro found Daisuke’s old school yearbook and we changed his profile picture on their website and he can’t figure out how to change it back. I met Mimi’s mother and she showed me some old photos; can you believe Mimi went through grade school with  _ pink _ hair—?”

“That’s not what I meant,” interrupted Sora, uncurling her legs and sitting back. “I was talking about your life.”

“I’m telling you about my life.”

She shook her head. “You’re telling me about their lives, Tai, and if I can be honest, I really am not interested.”

“Well, I am,” he said, “because talking about theirs means I don’t have to think about mine.”

It was the closest he had come to admitting his tendency to run for distractions, but Sora took it anyway. She seized upon it, a gateway into a world he so rarely let her down anymore. “That’s what I don’t understand. Wouldn’t hanging around the people you hired to cater your wedd—to cater for you remind you of it each time you met them?”

He fell silent, face raised to the ceiling as he stared at an unfixed point. 

“I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on with you first,” she said after a long moment, “instead of—well,” and she shrugged, knowing it was useless to be jealous of people who had helped him, too.

His voice was strangely low, “You’re one to talk.”

She raised her chin, brow furrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out,” said Taichi, standing from the couch. 

Sora gritted her teeth, flustered. “That has nothing to do with this—,”

“Spare me the bullshit.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, Taichi. You don’t know anything.”

He threw up his hands, point made. “And whose fault is that? We don’t talk anymore because we’re not the same anymore. Yamato lives across town, you’re always busy and now I know why, and it’s like we—,” and he sucked in his breath. He lowered his arms, voice dropping to a tired note. “We’ve all been shutting each other out.” When she did not respond, he returned to his seat, laying with his hands laced at the nape of his neck. “When did that happen to us?”

Sora didn’t know. It was that distance again, the one she had felt all the time these days, but it was harder to face a separation artificially made, and by her own choice. So she had enveloped herself deeply in her own life, her work and other responsibilities, and it had been nothing but a blanket excuse. She felt the hypocrisy in criticizing how Taichi had ducked out of a life that reminded him too much of what had left him behind, even if all it did was follow him anyway. But she had become too used to the space that lay between them. 

She did not like being vulnerable. 

The guilt ate at her heart, or what had been left of it.

She whispered, “He wanted to marry me.” 

He was silent.

She put her head in her hands, face turned into the palm, fingertips pressing little white circles into the rise of already pale cheekbones. “The week before your wedd—the week before, I found the ring in his sock drawer.”

Taichi turned his face towards her, staring with wide eyes. “…Yamato has an entire drawer for socks?”

Her mood snapped. 

“ _ Forget it _ —,” she hissed, starting to stand, but then a hand curled around her wrist and she was pulled back beside him roughly, shoulders knocking together. 

“All right, no jokes, I’ll stop,” he said, quickly swallowing the hint of a cheeky smile on his lips when she glanced at him coldly. He softened. “I’m listening, okay? Please, Sora.” He slipped his hand over hers, resting their entwined fingers on her knee. 

Tense muscles relaxed, even as her chest seem to constrict, squeezing her heart into her throat. She waited another moment to sort out a rush of thoughts, breathless. “We never talked about getting married. We kept things simple and it was enough. It was what I wanted. And then I found the ring, and I saw the big plan he had for us without even asking me if my plans were the same.” His expression clouded, but she beat him to it. “So I ended it.” She sounded far more confident than she felt, even now, about the decision. 

This time, his voice was soft. “Are you sure you would have said ‘no’?”

There wasn’t an answer she could give that wouldn’t have been a lie to herself, so she kept her lips pressed together, swallowing her instincts. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her shoulders in the vague outline of a shrug, falling still immediately after. 

Taichi did not ask again, releasing her hand at last. After a prolonged pause, he let out a flat and defeated sigh. “No wonder he’s my best friend. We keep trying to marry girls who don’t want to marry us. You can’t fake common interests like that.”

Her face darkened. “You said you wouldn’t make fun.”

“I’m not.” He prickled with irritation, and his voice seemed to grow louder the faster he spat the words out, stunning her. “But, honestly, what do you want me to say, Sora? As someone from the other side, I assume part of the reason you’re telling me this is to see what  _ I _ think  _ he _ thinks, right? So, then what? You want me to tell you that you’re right for bailing? You’re right for getting out while you could? That going for the selfish preemptive strike is the best way to not get hurt?”

“It’s not like that—,”

“You’re doing exactly what she did,” he said lowly. 

The silence came like a knife between them, cutting apart an already fragile thread. She felt the walls rising back up, a sea of distrust and misunderstanding. 

How could  _ he _ possibly understand? 

Why did she have to fight to justify  _ her _ feelings? 

Was there always a right and a wrong in relationships, with nothing in between?

She felt herself boiling over, coming undone. “ _ Fine _ !” she shouted, startling him, lurching to her feet. “I’m the monster! I’m in the wrong! It’s all my fault and now I’ve got to live with the mistake for the rest of my life, a life that will never be as happy as it could have been if I hadn’t been the bitch who broke his heart!” Her chest was heaving, breath rattling in her throat. “Is that what you want to hear?”

He tore his gaze away, downcast, and shifted back into the cushions. “‘Want’ is a bit strong.”

She did not retake her seat, fingers forming fists at her sides. “If I’m like her, then I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You’re not her.”

The quiet honesty of his voice calmed the raging storm inside her head, her anger stilling when she realized he was not. She held her breath. “I think I am sometimes,” she admitted at last, because she had spent months convincing herself it was true. 

But then he looked up at her, and the temper was gone. In its place was a strange kind of remorse, and she wondered who he felt sorry for most. He attempted a small, apologetic smile. “Loads different,” he promised. “You’re not putting him into crushing debt. You didn’t marry your rebound. You’re not making him so pathetic he has to move apartments and neglect his old friends for cooler, newer ones,” he added with a teasing smile, head falling back on the edge of the couch with a sad smack. He tilted his chin, glancing at her. “And you’re not a bitch, Sora. He doesn’t think you are. He never could.”

“He does. I know it.” She crossed the room stiffly, arms wrapped around her own shoulders. 

“That would mean you don’t know Yamato,” he said. “But you do. And you know I’m right.”

She remained persistent, feverish in her conviction. “I know what he wants. He wants his family back, and he wants a family again. It’s always been an issue with him and Takeru; you know it has. That’s what that ring was really asking me to give him.”

Taichi was strangely quiet, studying her with uncharacteristic perception. He cast a nervous hand over his face, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. “You never told him.”

She did not respond, and he leaned forward in his seat, fingers over his ears as he stared at the floor. Then he stood, and she glanced at him, uncertain, until he spoke. “Sora—,”

“Please don’t,” she interrupted at once, heart in her throat. 

“If that’s the real reason you—,”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“ _ Sora _ .”

“It doesn’t!” she insisted, a panic to her voice that did not belong. 

“You have to give him the option of knowing,” he protested, and then bit his tongue when he saw the tears spilling over her cheeks, for the first time that day. 

“And I had an option?” She shook her head, swallowing a hiccup. “It’s just better this way.”

“For who?”

“For me,” and her tone was agitated, insistent and forceful. “I’m thinking of me, Taichi, and if that’s unfair, then fine, burn me at the stake. I don’t care. But I need to think of  _ me _ sometimes, for  _ once _ .” 

When he did not speak, she waited for the panic to dim, and when it did not, she pressed the heels of her palms against her temples. “It’s very simple. He wants to get married and have a family. It’s a simple thing. It’s the simplest thing, and it’s the one thing that I’ll never—,” and she gasped, sinking against the wall, “—so how could—how could I look him in the eye and tell him he can’t have that with me?”

In an instant he had come to crouch on the ground in front of her, resting a hand on her knee. She lay her wet cheek against his fingers, afraid to meet his gaze. “You know what the worst part is?” she whispered.

He smoothed back her short bangs with his other hand. “Yamato owns more socks than you do?” 

She breathed deeply, eyes closed. “If he knew, he would stay, because he is a better person than me. He’d accept everything, and he would make it work, if it were him.” Pale hands covered her face and she shook her head. “And I realized I’m not like that, and I really don’t like myself for it.” Her voice trailed off, trembling a little at the end. 

The curl of his lips was gentle and kind. “That’s not entirely your fault, you know, thinking that way about him. He’s a like a parasitic tick that worms its way under your skin and leaves its head in your bloodstream, and you’re doomed, living his disease for the rest of your life.” He pressed his forehead to hers, letting his thumb poke gently into the curve of her cheek, teasing at the corner of her mouth. “That’s what Ishida is. A tick.”

She smiled into her fingers, scrubbing her cheeks dry. “I don’t like ticks.”

“Who does?”

“But I still love him.”

Taichi kissed her temple. “Who doesn’t?”

His pocket vibrated, and she hiccupped, surprised. Fishing the mobile from his jeans, he saw a flurry notifications for several retaliatory text messages, momentarily confused by their sudden descent into his rapidly swelling inbox. Then he remembered the picture war and he flinched on instinct. Maybe he should have toned down the torturous puns. 

Then the lock screen displayed previews of the newest messages, each depicting a tiny thumbnail of a miniature fudge sculpture bearing an uncanny resemblance to his own self dangling in precarious positions about the catering shop: from the top of a shelf to the depths of the freezer bin; from the heated coil of the stovetop to the bottom of a bottle of vinegar; from the flat edge of a humongous knife to the end of a string tied around his figurine’s neck.  **_If your stupid texts cost me a job because they kept interrupting all my consultations, I made plenty of voodoo dolls to figure out how to thank you._ **

Well, maybe not.

“Go ahead and answer,” said Sora with a smile, taking his hand and pulling the both of them up to their feet. 

But he returned the phone to his pocket. “It’s not important—,”

She rolled her eyes, pushing a large box stuffed with bedspreads and pillows towards the door with her foot. “I know that look, Tai. You only get like that when a girl texts you.”

“Don’t be stupid—,”

“Being defensive only makes you look guiltier.”

The flush on his cheeks did not fade, and he raised his chin, nose wrinkled. “I thought you were all grumpy about being replaced?”

She paused, lips pursed in feigned shock. “Are you planning on replacing me?”

“I wasn’t until that spaghetti sauce.”

Sora rolled her eyes, lifting the last cardboard box onto the stack by the door and dusting off her hands. “Keep talking, Yagami, and that spaghetti sauce is the only food I’m bringing to your housewarming party.”

He sputtered, chest heaving in fear. “Don’t even joke about that.”


	12. It holds you down away from me

 

“You’re late,” Mimi snapped as soon as he answered. Daisuke’s voice mumbled with static, and she made a face, pulling her ear away from the phone a fraction. “And where are you?” she demanded, raising her tone.

She heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of a door closing, and when he spoke, it was with a faint echo. “I said, I can’t come.”

Her face fell immediately, “Why not?”

“Something came up, and I don’t think I’m gonna be able to make it.”

She kicked the air in frustration, earning a wary glance from a pair of passing schoolgirls. Turning away with flushed cheeks, she paced down the snowy sidewalk, boots crunching over salted, dirtied ice. “You can’t make me go by myself,” she hissed.

“Don’t be a baby—,”

“—says the guy who fainted from a cut to his thumb—,”

“—just because you have to go to a party by yourself.” He huffed, and she could hear the annoyed grimace through the speaker. “And it was a huge cut. I was very manly about it, all the eight-year-olds there said so.”

She leaned against the brick wall of a closed shop, the chilly night air prickling through the tiny spaces in her woolen hat, biting at her ears. Whining, she protested, “I’m not going to know anyone else.”

“That’s not true. Sure, Koushiro’s out of town, but Taichi will be there. It  _ is _ his housewarming party.”

“He’ll be busy playing the host all night.”

“…You have met Taichi, right? It’ll be a miracle if he remembers he’s hosting at all.”

She turned so the side of her head pressed into the wall, chewing on her nails. “You really can’t come?”

“I told you, something came up.” 

Suddenly, the reason for his fidgeting became clear, and her eyes narrowed, nose scrunched. “She’d better be pretty,” she threatened, then retracted the statement, quickly, ego bruised when she considered the notion with serious hindsight. “Not as much as me, though, or you’re fired.”

“No one could hold a candle to you, Mimi, not to me.” He hesitated, lowering his voice, “I’ll make it all up to you later, I promise.”

“Oh, you definitely will.”

His chuckle coincided with the sound of a lever being pulled and the gush of running water. Mimi balked, straightening at once, jaw open. 

Her screech was muffled by her scarf. “Are you seriously calling me from the toilet?”

“You’re the one who called me!”

“ _ Daisuke _ !”

“What, am I just not going to answer when my hands are free?”

She gave a groan of protest, rubbing her temple with the back of her yellow mitten. “Oh, just go.”

“Just did—,”

Mimi hung up before he could finish the joke, shuddering and suddenly grateful her parents had no other children to torture her with growing up. Slipping the phone back into her purse, she surveyed the large apartment complex across the street, its ground floor divided between a rowdy bar overflowing with patrons looking to warm up on a cold winter night, and a grungy noodle stand that did not appear to be faithfully observing health codes with any particular fervor. If luck were on her side, another snow storm would strike at this exact moment, rendering the ridiculously pathetic notion of going to a housewarming party with no mutual friends beside the one other person who made her—

_ No _ . 

Wrinkling her brow, she yanked the flaps of her wool hat lower over freezing ears, tugged the strap of her purse closer over tense shoulders, and marched across the street, nose in the air. She shuffled her way to the fourth floor of the building, undoing the scarf from her neck after finally reaching the right door. Jaw set determinedly, she pressed the doorbell, stepping back to fix her expression into the most nonchalant and pleasantly self-assured posture she could imagine. 

There was no answer. 

Confidence waning, she hit the bell again, listening to the chime echo through the paper thin walls. The ringing was met only with silence, and Mimi faltered, checking apartment number. It was the right address, the correct building, the noted night—but where was everyone?

Pulling her mitten off, she knocked on the door, leaning forward to press her ear against it. Confused, she glanced up and down the hallway, then sidestepped her way to the window, behind which she could see the light peering through pale blue curtains. Bending at the waist, she peeked into the sliver of space between the lace draperies—and immediately collided with the wall, tripping face-first, when the elderly woman slowly peeling an ear of corn at the kitchen window caught her gaze and screamed. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Mimi shrieked, stumbling back, face burned scarlet. 

There was a low rumbling of low laughter behind her, and she spun around, and her heart was seized with an altogether different kind of confused panic. 

Taichi braced himself against the wall of the building, having emerged from the elevator at the end of the hallway and discovered the scene with unbridled delight. His ears were a dark pink from the cold, matching the slight reds of his cheeks and nose, and he boasted neither coat nor gloves despite the chilly frost. He wore only black denim jeans under a bright green sweater embroidered with a cartoon reindeer, its nose a furry puff of tangled knots that drooped sadly down his chest. 

He grinned, fingers slipping into this pockets. “Next time you want to peep at me, remember that my windows are on the right of the door, not the left.”

She glowered, embarrassment vanishing the second he had started laughing at her, though she could think of nothing to snap back, which irritated her even more. “Party’s over already, is it?”

He thumbed his nose, scratching the tip, sheepish. “Party moved to the bar downstairs. I don’t seem to have made much of an impression with my neighbors,” he added with a shrug, then winked at her, “and neither have you. Peas in a pod, aren’t we?”

“Oh,” was all she could think of responding with, and she shifted on her feet, holding her purse in front of her. “Daisuke couldn’t make it,” she blurted out finally. 

“Yeah, he texted me earlier.” He pointed back at the elevator. “You’re welcome to come down to the bar if you want to stay.”

“Of course, I’m staying,” she responded at once, and he raised an eyebrow. Panicked, she added, “But not without a tour first.” Her hand shot out to gesture with more than the appropriate amount of enthusiasm at his apartment, smacking hard against the door. She stood very still, arm outstretched and mouth open, the shock pouring like a mental balm over any sensation of pain for several long seconds. “… _ Ow _ ,” she whimpered. 

“I always knew you were a bit ridiculous.” Before the feeling could return, he had stepped before her, his hands gently cupping her possibly broken one, and what should have been cold was warm, melting through skin and bone and heart. He had enough courtesy not to laugh at her pain, at least not openly. Instead, he tugged on her arm, shaking his head at her the way one would a helplessly incompetent child. “Come on, I’ve got ice in the freezer.”

Numb the moment he had touched her, she allowed him to lead her into the darkened apartment, knocking into boxes and bags still piled up in the entrance. He waved her off when she started to remove her boots, citing the general haphazard state of the newly acquired flat as a reason to forgo usual courtesies, and it took much willpower to override the basic gesture, though she was not altogether unhappy about having something else to concentrate on when he still did not let go of her throbbing hand. No, his fingers remained curled tightly around hers even after they had waded to the kitchen, where he used his free hand to dig through the freezer and retrieve a half-pint tub of strawberry ice cream. 

“Okay, so no real ice, but this should work,” he said, gently positioning her knuckles around the curved tin. “So what do you think of the place?”

She could not restrain herself any longer. “It’s not very clean, is it?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Look at it not with your eyes—,” 

“…that’s actually impossible, you know that, right?”

“—but with your mind’s eye.” And he gestured around the room in a deeply mystical fashion, letting the last syllable trail off mysteriously.

She followed his indications, doubtful and unimpressed, lips pressed together. 

“You don’t see it, do you?” he said with disappointment. 

“I don’t really want to see things from your mind’s eye, Taichi.”

He bopped her lightly on the nose, resting a calloused thumb on the pointed tip, which seemed to inflame a bright pink under his touch. He did not notice this, or at least was not surprised by it, for he did only tweaked her nose in a small gesture of warning, smirking. She made a face to mask the skipping of a heartbeat that had no business skipping anywhere, then averted her gaze, confused again, the way she always seemed to be these days. Grasping tightly onto reality, she ducked casually away from him, removing the ice cream carton from her now completely numb hand and returning it to the freezer. 

“Feeling better?” he asked, dark brown eyes settling on what would likely be a bruise in the morning. 

“I’ll survive,” she promised, “and just long enough to give you your housewarming gift.”

He perked up at once, face shining animatedly, and she suppressed a giggle at his childlike response. She produced a small silver package from her purse, thrusting it towards him. 

“What’s this?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” she said. 

But she was grinning, and he narrowed his eyes, fingers sliding along the edge of the wrapping paper and hooking underneath the sliver of tape securing the shiny blue pieces together. Without breaking his smirking gaze from hers, he tore the paper off, at last lowering his eyes to the rectangular package in his hands. 

He shouted in laughter, “Am I really this helpless?”

“About cooking with garlic you are, and I’ve seen the disaster firsthand.” She reached to turn the package over so he could see the pictures on the back, detailing every way the garlic press could be used. “You’ll never have to peel garlic on your own again.”

“Oh, the possibilities,” he said in a dry voice. “There’s garlic potatoes—,”

“Garlic beef—,”

“Garlic bread—,”

“Garlic pizza—,”

“Garlic cupcakes,” he added, and she balked. 

She regarded him with horror. “Maybe I should have included a cookbook.”

“When you publish yours, I expect an entire section, just for me. Swear it!”

She signed a cross over her chest. “I swear.”

He grinned at her, but for a moment she thought something else passed in his gaze, and his hand moved slightly, fingers stretched towards her. And then they were coursing through his thick hair, and he was rocking back on his heels, setting the garlic press on the counter. “We should head downstairs.”

She swallowed an unsettling anxiousness and buried her fists in the pockets of her coat. Matching the cheerful casualness of his own voice, she nodded, “I expect they are all anxiously awaiting your return. What were you up here for anyway?”

He snapped his fingers, remembering suddenly. “Aha!” Striding towards a large cardboard box labeled  **_poor fashion choices_ ** , he rummaged through the contents and lifted out an obnoxiously bright yellow sweater, knit with the pattern of what could have been white snowflakes if they had been designed by someone who had ever been acquainted with the concept of winter. Instead, the shapes grouped together in a strange swirling motif that better resembled a glittery kind of bacteria. Poor fashion choice could not have been associated with a better garment.

Mimi paled. “You didn’t actually spend money on that, did you?”

He rolled the sweater tightly, throwing it over his shoulder. “Contain your jealousy, please.”

Rolling her eyes, she followed him from the apartment, pulling her hat down around her ears when they stepped back into the cold night. She teased him about the short distance it was from his flat to the bar, and he assured her it was the only requirement he had been looking to fill in his apartment search, wincing in grim agreement when she pointed out that the money he was saving on the lowered rent of the new accommodation would simply be redirected to alcohol. She predicted it would drive him to destitution, but she could not hear his response when he pushed the door to the bar open for her, and she was met with a blast of stereo music at high volume and the raucous laughter of good friends. 

The inside of the bar was every bit as a shamble as she had imagined when she had first spotted it earlier that evening. The floor was sticky, glimmering with icy slosh and spilled liquor, and perhaps other substances she did not care to consider further, and the walls were covered with peeling posters and flyers advertising local eateries and late night shows. Behind the equally dirty bar counter was a large, slanted mirror, stretching across the length of the room, giving the cramped space the illusion of being larger than it was, despite its dim shine. It was so small that it was standing room only, with no tables but counters lining the walls, ripped bar stools positioned haphazardly beside them. An assortment of world beverages lined shelves upon shelves behind the counter, along with instant snapshots of customers over the years, posing for pictures in various degrees of sobriety. Opposite the counter was a shallow stage with a microphone and karaoke machine, and at the far corner was a series of dart boards riddled with holes. Nothing was new, nothing was clean, and everyone was ecstatic to be there.

At first, she could see no one she knew, and she felt her stomach turn unpleasantly as her gaze swept over a room of faces delightedly greeting Taichi’s return, all of whom were foreign to her. But then her hazel eyes caught a glimpse of sea blue, and she relaxed, relieved. 

Yamato pushed forward through the crowd, weaving a way to the bar and beckoning the pair forward. Mimi grinned, pulling herself up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek in greeting, and he squeezed her arm in response, leaning into her.  

Taichi’s gaze lingered on the friendly way the blond brushed against Mimi, and he pushed himself between them at the counter. “I found her peeping into old lady apartments. Can’t say I’m shocked, to be honest.”

“She looks like she has a wild streak,” agreed Yamato with a smirk, and she swatted a hand at the both of them. “What are you drinking?”

“Oh, not tonight,” she protested at once, “I’ve got an early morning.”

“That’s more than twelve hours away!”

“As impressed as I am about your math skills,” said Mimi, “I’m just having soda.”

“Spoilsport.” Taichi waved over the bartender, a squat, round man with a goatee dyed neon orange, a large skull ornament dangling from his left ear. “Draft beer for me, a fizzy soda for the lady, and make sure it’s extra fizzy,” he added, making obvious gestures towards the bottles of hard liquor under the counter.

“No fizz,” interrupted Mimi, and the bartender retracted his hand, confused. 

“Fizzy is the whole point of soda, Mimi.”

“Just the soda,” repeated Yamato and the bartender obeyed.

Taichi stared at the man, offended. “Why are you listening to him?”  

“My tone demands more respect than yours.”

“It does,” the bartender muttered, handing Mimi her drink. She giggled, slipping a few bills towards him, and he winked. 

The scowl appeared before he could register its source, and the man had left to attend to another patron before Taichi could think of a retort to steer Mimi away from the attention. It was a bigger task than he anticipated, for moments later another barrel-chested man was weaving his way towards her, knocking Taichi’s shoulder roughly as he placed himself forcefully between them. Mimi cheerfully responded to the man’s greeting, politely declining the offer for a drink, and when he persisted, Yamato snaked his arm casually around her shoulders, passing the man a reserved glance. She sighed in relief when the stranger finally walked off, and Yamato shook his head, “You’re a lot of work, aren’t you?”

Mimi clicked her tongue. “I’m the best kind of work,” she insisted matter-of-factly, and he laughed.

“Game of darts?” Taichi asked, distracting their attentions from each other.

Yamato craned his neck. “I think I see one open. Order a pitcher, will you? We’ll go grab it.”

He gestured for her to go ahead of him, and Mimi pushed her way through the throngs, narrowly avoiding a fresh puddle of spilled beer. She pulled off her hat and mittens when they reached the darts board, considering where to place them, until Yamato found a wad of napkins and rubbed off a spot on the counter built into the wall beneath the boards. She shrugged, grinning, and piled her winter outerwear and purse together, already feeling warm under her wool dress and knit stockings. 

“How have you been?” she asked, accepting the random grouping of darks he handed her from a little box on the counter. 

They stepped back a few paces and he took aim before letting the first dart fly. It landed within the smaller circle, just shy of the smallest, and he sighed. “All right. Work’s busy. Last week, we—,”

She shook her head, raising her voice when the group of drunken office workers at the karaoke machine started their rendition of a popular rock ballad.  “I don’t mean work.” 

“Ah,” he said, blue eyes clouding over at once. He glanced back at the bar, and Mimi followed her gaze. She saw that Taichi had been joined by two young women, a lithe redhead in an off-white turtleneck and light blue jeans, and a beautiful blonde in a tweed skirt and long-sleeved lace top. The latter pulled at the yellow sweater Taichi was still carrying, exclaiming excitedly as she struggled to slip it on, while Taichi made a comment that made the former giggle. 

Mimi glanced back at Yamato, who had taken to inspecting the dart tips with unusual dedication. 

“Is that her?”

He did not answer, which confirmed it. 

She squinted, biting her lip, and shot her first dart, its nose finding a spot abysmally far from the center. She wrinkled her brow, disappointed, then turned her attention to him again. “I’ll admit though, I don’t think I pegged you for dating blondes.”

His smile came unbidden, amused. “No, Sora’s in jeans. That’s Catherine.”

Her mouth parted, but she could not speak for surprise, and she glanced back to the bar. Taichi had stepped forward towards the blonde woman, pulling the sweater over her head and helping her arms through the sleeves. She tugged at the hem, satisfied, and smoothed back her hair, grinning up at him. Her remark made the Sora shriek with laughter, head tossed back, and Taichi pulled a face, nose scrunched. 

And then his arms were around her waist, palms resting low on her hip, and when she turned to him with a twinkling glance, he dipped his head into the curve of a slender neck, kissing her shoulder.

“Your turn, Mimi.”

Her eyes snapped back to the darts board, breath shallow. 

The dart fell short of the mark again, and her hands were shaking when she picked up her soda and took a long sip. Clearing her throat, she smiled kindly at him. “If you want to talk to me all night, I won’t complain.”

He smirked, sending his next shot a fraction of a measure from the bull’s eye. “We’re not avoiding each other. We’re adults.” 

“Adults avoid things all the time. That’s the best thing about being a grown-up: you can deny anything you want.” 

He chuckled, blue eyes lingering once more on the trio at the counter. His smile faded when the barrel-chested man appeared again, leaning close towards the Sora, whose face demonstrated no amusement or polite response. 

Mimi placed a hand on his arm when he started forward on instinct, and he stopped himself, gritting his teeth. They watched as Sora snapped a retort that made the man scowl and remove himself from her with a snarling glance, to which Taichi responded with a well-deserved hand gesture, his other arm still wrapped low around Catherine’s waist. Yamato relaxed only slightly at this, dropping his gaze, and Mimi took the darts from his hands, setting them back in their box on the counter. 

“Jou says you had a band in school. What do you say we find one of your songs on the karaoke machine?”

“We were never popular enough to get listed in a karaoke box.”

“Then a dance?”

Yamato blanched, stunned. “I don’t dance,” he said, as though this were something she should have known from looking at him.

“Not even when you had your band?”

His blue eyes narrowed. “That’s why I was  _ in _ the band,” he said matter-of-factly.

Mimi grinned, stilling the desire to laugh at him. “Okay, then how about another song from the karaoke box? Will you sing one with me?”

He seemed to recoil within himself. “Mimi—,”

Her pale pink lips formed an obnoxious pout, and he immediately averted his gaze, determined not to fall prey. “Jou says you were the singer in your band.”

“That was years ago.”

“And here’s another opportunity to—,”

He interrupted her again, “I really would rather—,”

“—prefer an upbeat tempo, something with a little kick, if you would.” Takeru tickled the back of his brother’s head, and Yamato ducked at once, scowling, fingers smoothing back once perfectly combed hair. The younger blond only winked, unaffected, as usual. He glanced over the rest of the dingy bar, swallowing a large swig from his bottle of pale ale. “This place kind of blows, doesn’t it?”

Yamato gave the most imperceptible nod of agreement before remembering his manners. He introduced the man gruffly, “Mimi, this is my brother Takeru,” though Mimi surmised by the tone of voice that he was not too keen on spreading the connection around.

Takeru was already reaching out to shake her hand, a gesture she accepted with friendly enthusiasm. 

“Cute runs in the family, does it?” she said, and Takeru whistled, clutching his chest. 

“Flattery like that will get you anywhere and everywhere,” he said, winking over the top of the bottle as he took another sip. “But I will say, it’s nice to finally meet the elusive Mimi. You know, Taichi talks about you all the time.”

Her mouth felt dry, and she narrowed her eyes to hide the sudden flush in her cheeks. “All bad things, I assume.”

“Terrible, horrible things.” He poked Yamato in the neck, earning another scowl. “Nothing as terrible and horrible as the absolute nightmare happening in my neighbor’s apartment tonight, though.” He leaned towards Mimi, lowering his voice. “I live near a trio of sisters, and it’s like living a real-life soap opera. I’ve been watching the youngest juggle these two guys for months now, and I think shit hit the fan today.”

Her eyes glinted. “How scandalous!”

Yamato sighed, interrupting in a grave voice, “That’s private, Takeru.”

“Am I really at fault when it happens right outside my doorstep?”

Mimi laughed, confessing, “I’m not sure I’d be able to resist eavesdropping either.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” he promised, and Yamato opened his mouth to deliver another admonishing lecture, but then a new song began screeching throughout the tiny room, and the bar crowd fell into an uproar of excitement over the catchy tune. Takeru and Mimi glanced at each other when Yamato winced, glaring at the speakers with calculating resentment, and the pair came to a silent understanding. 

Takeru finished his beer with a single gulp and Mimi slammed her empty soda glass onto the counter by her coat. They each grabbed an arm, yanking Yamato back into the crowd before he could realize what was happening. He immediately dove for an exit, but Takeru trapped him in the center of the makeshift dance floor, and Mimi circled her arms around his neck, spinning him around. 

She raised herself up to speak into his ear, “You can’t let your life go on without you.”

He grew strangely still, eyes wide, and she smiled at him, hands lightly resting on his forearms. When he did not move, she swayed a little, shimmying her body to the music, and Takeru popped up behind him. “Dance with us!” crooned Mimi over the music, and Takeru started raising and lowering his brother’s arms like a robot, while she swayed to a beat that did not match the song blaring around them. They made a ridiculous puppet show for the first few minutes, earning admiring chuckles from bar patrons jiving around them, until Yamato broke into a careful, shy smile, shaking his head and resigned to his fate for the night.

Mimi grinned, ducking around him to spin her way towards Takeru, who caught her easily, dipping her back. When he pulled her upright, he whispered, “Thanks.”

She squeezed his hand as he spun her back to Yamato. He awkwardly took hold of her arms, and she folded her fingers around his, showing him how to step and move to an imaginary beat, laughing when he repeatedly stubbed the toes of her boots. They danced terribly through several more songs, until his smile became more open and her face was a bright pink from the heat, and they both were forgetting everything else. 

And then he twirled her away from him again, and this time she collided with Taichi. 

He caught her with both hands, grinning slyly. “I can’t believe you got Yamato to dance.”

She slipped from his hold, pulling her damp hair back from her neck. “I just asked him.” 

“Just like that?”

Her gaze caught sight of the blonde woman dancing with the redheaded girl, and Yamato bending over laughing at a silly trick Takeru was doing while wiggling his arms in a dance move that might better indicate signs of physical distress. 

Mimi shrugged her shoulders. “I can do anything,” she said in a bossy voice.

“I’m starting to believe it,” he confessed, his cheeks flushed from the alcohol. He held out his hand. “So dance with me.”

But she stepped back, and his smile flickered. 

“It’s getting late,” she guessed, imagining it must be. 

His arm was still outstretched to her, waiting.

She shook her head, “I’m probably going to head back.”

He frowned, confused. “What?” he shouted over the music.

Mimi leaned forward, careful to keep her distance, and repeated herself louder. “I have to get up early for work tomorrow.”

He closed the distance between them easily, before she could step further, and his fingers caught hers. “You’re leaving?”

She pulled back, trying to walk to the darts boards where her coat and purse still sat. “I should have gone home a lot earlier; Jou’s probably—,”

“One more drink,” Taichi interrupted, following her. “I’ll even have a soda with you, fizz-free.”

Her hesitance confused her, and she tore her gaze away, “All right.”

They squeezed around the still jumping crowd and back to the bar counter. Mimi let him order, glancing back nervously at a smiling Catherine, her pretty pink face ducked into Sora’s arms when she tripped, the pair falling into drunken giggles once more. 

“Cheers,” Taichi said when he handed her the soda. 

“Cheers,” she smiled, taking a small sip after they clinked the glasses together. She hesitated, then blurted out with half-hearted conviction, “Daisuke’s going to be annoyed he missed meeting your girlfriend.”

Taichi rolled his eyes, “He pokes his nose into everything, doesn’t he?”

The world seeming to shrink every so much closer when he did not deny who the woman was. 

She blinked quickly, forcing a weak laugh, “Always has, always will.” She raised the glass to her lips again, pretending to drink. Then she paused, remembering the ice cream carton in the freezer, flexing her hand instinctively at the memory. “She’s turned you into a strawberry convert?”

Taichi made a face, “Trying to. Still not convinced.”

“What’s with the strawberry hate anyway?”

“Pink should not be a food color.”

She paused. “What about cotton candy?”

He stared at her blankly. “Air is not food, Mimi.”

She stuck out her tongue, and he leaned into her without warning. She tightened her hand around her drink, breathless. He said in a soft voice, “Thanks for earlier, by the way.” 

She lifted the glass to her mouth, biting the edge lightly. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ll see first if you have any skill at garlic pressing before—,”

“Not that,” he interrupted. “Well, yeah, thanks for that, too, but I meant—,” and he stopped, smile nervous, then finished vaguely, “for being there.”

She regarded him for a moment, confused, and then her eyes widened ever so slightly.

They had not discussed that morning in the past two months, and she had never heard him bring the subject up since. Normally, Mimi would have pressed an issue that needed closure, believing in verbal healing, but the way he’d looked that day was seared into a dark part of her mind, and she hid it carefully, never revisiting it without due cause. Maybe this was what her problem was in avoiding the tough issues, and maybe she was only enabling him by settling right back into the jovial side of life without batting an eye, but that was all she could think of doing when he offered nothing of his own. 

Until now.

“Oh,” she said dumbly, awkward.

He sensed her apprehensive confusion, shifting his balance with a chuckle. “I’m sure I didn’t leave the best of impressions that day.”

“Not true,” she lied immediately, and he rolled his eyes, seeing right through her, the way he always seemed to do. So she corrected herself, pursing her lips. “I mean, sure, it was pathetic, you crawling about the floor, but then, you do pathetic so well.”

He knocked into her shoulder, deliberately causing her to trip forward. Her hand shot out to balance herself against the counter, and she threw him a look. He grinned into his soda glass. “Oh, do I?”

“Yes.” Straightening herself, she lifted her nose in the air. “Never not be, that’s my advice to you.”

His smirk still did wonders to the insides of her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do.” She set the half-empty glass on the counter, shouldering her purse. “Have a good night, Taichi.”

He placed his own glass beside hers, then reached out to tug her hat low about her ears, fingers brushing her neck as he drew his hands away, lingering where he should not have lingered. “You, too, Mimi.”

She walked to the subway with her hands over the sides of her hat, fingers pressed against the tops of her ears and palms resting against the curve of her neck. She shivered, breathing deeply, then shook her head and picked up her pace, catching the last train heading home with seconds to spare. 

Her apartment was warm and toasty when she stepped through the doorway, shaking the fresh snow from her boots on the mat just outside the entrance. She pulled off her coat and scarf, covering her mouth when she yawned. She crept into the hallway, tiptoeing around the corner, and then stopped when she saw him sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.

“You’re awake,” she said, surprised. “I thought you were going to sleep until your shift. Isn’t it in a couple hours?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he answered, audibly exhausted. He glanced up at her, rubbing a finger over his lips. “How was the party?”

“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “We went to this bar at the ground level of Taichi’s new building. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and I was terrible at playing darts. If Daisuke had been there, I think we could have teamed up and won.”

He raised his chin, voice low. “Daisuke didn’t go with you?”

She shook her head, stretching her arms over her head. “But Yamato was there. I met his brother, too. We had to keep him distracted all night because I think Yamato’s ex-girlfriend was there with—and you’ll never believe this—Catherine.”

Jou looked away again. “Mimi, you know I don’t know these people.”

She waved him off, impatient. “I told you about Catherine and Taichi. I thought it was just a few ill-timed dates, but I guess they must have had more. She’s even gotten him to try strawberry ice cream. It’s so ridiculous. Men will do anything, won’t they, to keep a girl around? I mean, he doesn’t even  _ like _ strawberry ice cream.”

Jou leaned forward, pushing his glasses up with his thumbs, forefingers pressed into the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

She did not hear the coldness in his voice, tossing her hair back into a ponytail and pinching her cheeks to warm up her face. “I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about how stupid it is that he’s pretending to—,” and she turned around, speech faltering when she saw the tired, tense slouch of his shoulders. Her eyes settled carefully, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What’s wrong?”

He did not look at her, hand still rubbing his face slowly. “Do you remember what you were supposed to do today?”

She opened her mouth to quiz him on the strange question, and she saw the laptop on the coffee table before him. Her eyes flashed with sudden understanding. “You read my mail.”

“You left it open on—,”

“No,” she interrupted angrily, “that’s not an excuse. You had no right to look through my mail!”

He clenched his fist on his knee, “No, I don’t, and I’m sorry for crossing that line. But I do have the right to care about what you do with your future. Repeatedly blowing off an opportunity to work with a chef in a restaurant is—,” he struggled with the words, “—don’t you see how foolish you’re being?”

Her face paled, and she stepped back several paces. 

Jou leaned forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned his face towards her, keeping his voice even. “Why won’t you meet with him for the interview?”

“Because I—,” and she sucked in her breath, head pounding, “I wasn’t ready.”

“You’ve been talking about doing something like this for years.”

“It’s completely out of my field of experience.”

“That’s why the interview was for an apprenticeship, to learn—,”

“I changed my mind—,”

“ _ Mimi _ .”

“I did!” 

“What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid, Jou! Just drop it!”

“You won’t be able to get anywhere if you let your fear—,”

She clapped her hands over her ears, shaking her head furiously. “I do not want another lecture, I really don’t. It’s been a really long night, and I just—I want to go to bed now.”

“I’m just trying to support you with your career change, Mimi—,”

“I don’t want your support!” she shouted back, temper beating her. “So just stop!”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Stop?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

And it spilled from his lips before he could think, because he had been fearing it for weeks. “But you’re fine talking about him.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t do that.” 

Jou pulled the glasses from his face, folding them in his hands. “We need to talk about this, Mimi.”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

He spoke slowly, “The email said that it was his third time rescheduling, and you still haven’t followed up with a chance like this. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about you!” she said suddenly, and his gaze snapped up, mouth parted. “I’m thinking about how everything works on a plan for you, everything’s laid out and perfect and confident—but I’m not that kind of person, Jou, and I hate how you try to make me into something that fits you better!”

His jaw fell open, “You think I’m trying to fix you?”

“Of course, you are! Don’t you know how that makes me feel?” She could not see for the furious tears in her eyes, but she blinked them back, teeth clenched. “It’s never been easy being your girlfriend.”

He seemed to sink into himself, his expression a perfect blank canvas. “Oh.”

The walls caved around them, and her face crumbled, “I didn’t mean that.”

His voice was soft, and the remorse in his tone shattered her heart. “I didn’t realize it was so difficult for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she repeated, because she was not able to say anything else. When he did not respond, she whispered, “Jou, look at me.” He did not, bending over at the waist, staring at the floor. So she flew to him, sinking to the ground at his feet, one arm over his knees and the other outstretched to cup his face. 

But he flinched when she touched him, pushing her hands away and rising to his feet, fumblingly returning the eyeglasses to his face, blinking quickly.

“Jou…,” she called again, panic swelling in her ears. 

“If it was so hard, you should have said so.”

“It’s not!” She scrambled to her feet, heaving, and he still would not look at her. “It’s just—sometimes I’d feel like I wasn’t living up to—but it’s nothing to do with you—,”

He raised his chin finally, and the watery quality of his gaze froze the words in her throat. “I think it does.”

He turned from her then, and she stared at his mechanic movements around the room, collecting his wallet and coat. 

“Where are you going?” she whispered, terrified.

“I’m giving you space. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

She opened her mouth to deny it at once, but nothing came, and she felt the cold sweeping through every inch of her skin, like she would never be warm again. She could hear nothing, not the sound of her shallow breathing, not the steps his feet, not the last words he spoke in a whisper, hesitating just before he left—she heard none of this, only the final click of the door when the lock shut. 

It was only then that her legs gave away. She fell hard, clutching her chest, trying to make her heart work again. It gave a shuddering tremble, leaping to life, and she scrambled blindly for her phone. Her fingers found the number without her having to look, and she struggled to breathe, hand pressed over her shaking mouth. She bent over with the phone to her ear, forehead pressed to the floor.

“Mimi?”

Her sob was of the violent kind. “Can you come over?”


	13. You and me, we’ve both got sins

 

Takeru watched as his friend sank to a crouch in front of the refrigerated drink section of the convenience store, pink nose wrinkled with grumbling annoyance. “So this is how we’re spending the holidays?” 

“Yes,” answered Taichi. “This is what friends are for, and this is what friends do.”

“He’s not  _ my _ friend,” the younger blond grumbled, sniffing. 

“Then by all means, Takaishi, go find your own friends and hang out with them.”

He paused for a long moment, as though seriously considering the permission to leave, and the lingering silence caused Taichi to crane his neck back with a resentful scowl, glaring up at the tall man behind him. “Are you actually thinking about it?”

Takeru laughed, “I’m not abandoning you yet.” His grin faltered at once when Taichi stood at last, and his blue eyes settled on the brand of drinks the latter held in his arms. “Chocolate milk?”

“It’s what he asked for,” answered Taichi simply, as though such requests were common for adult men to make in times of emotional crises. 

The writer shook his head with exaggerated displeasure at what his night was turning into, but nonetheless followed his friend to the counter and then out the doors, trudging into the cold winter evening. It was at a corner a few blocks north that they encountered the third member of that night’s misery party, his pale face a stark white and dotted with red circles at the tip of his long nose and the tops of his ears. In spite of this, Yamato still looked  _ cool _ rather than  _ cold _ , though Taichi imagined he had to have been under only a wool blue scarf, leather jacket, and dark denim pants. But the tall blond did not even appear to have realized winter had arrived. As usual, he was calm and collected in the ruthlessly freezing environment, shifting on his feet not because he was hoping to keep warm by constantly moving, but because he was still mildly annoyed at having waited longer than he’d planned for them. 

“It’s only a few streets up,” said Taichi, but neither brother was appeased by the promise of warmth soon. 

“The next time you invite us out for a ‘night of fun’,” said Takeru, ridiculing the description, “don’t.”

“It will be fun,” insisted Taichi. “You guys like Daisuke.”

“That remains to be seen,” remarked Yamato dryly.

“Look, all I know is that he was interested in this girl and got turned down,” said Taichi, recalling the sequence of miserable texts he’d received from the chef that sparked the plans for the entire night thus far. He hadn’t pried into the reasoning, figuring it had something to do with why Daisuke hadn’t showed at his housewarming party a few days earlier, but he didn’t need to know the whole story to be a good support network, not after all that Daisuke had done for him when they’d barely known each other before. “He’s been having a rough couple of days. We’ve just got to try to distract him from doing anything stupid, like crawling back to her—,”

“I can hear you guys.”

The trio stopped, confusion interrupting their arguing. Yamato’s head swiveled up, and he pointed to the ledge of a billboard tower looming from the rooftop of a closed bowling alley. Daisuke was perched on the side with his legs dangling over the edge, arms draped over the single railing that stood between him and sudden death from the roof. He appeared perfectly content and unusually suited for the unexpected environment, and Taichi suspected it was not the first time the young chef spent time up there. He squinted now though, mouth open. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I wanted to be outside,” answered Daisuke as though it were entirely logical to desire such a thing in the dead of winter. “Come on,” he called, waving them up. 

Takeru, whose opinion of the evening magically improved after the opportunity to add a little reckless danger to the mix, eagerly started for the metal ladder at the side of the building, hoisting himself up with surprising dexterity. 

Yamato and Taichi, meanwhile, exchanged looks. 

“Okay, next time you can choose the venue,” said Taichi weakly.

Yamato shook his head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The climb turned out to be quiet easy, which Taichi was secretly grateful for, having never developed much of an affection for heights. He scooted over on the ledge between Daisuke and Yamato, who took the place next to Takeru. Between the four of them, they made for a grumpy line of men along the bottom of the giant billboard. 

“Milk,” said Daisuke, and the cartons were passed down to each, Yamato doing nothing to hide his displeasure anymore and Takeru resigned to mildly vexed amusement, the view from the rooftop making up for the beverage selection. 

“I’m going to assume,” said Yamato, cracking up the mouth of his milk carton, “that this is part of some symbolic coping mechanism.”

Daisuke, who’d already started drinking, wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “My mom always said chocolate milk makes everything better.”

“And what is everything, exactly?” asked Takeru, not shying away from the reason they had all gathered that night. “Is this about the girl who dumped you for the other guy?”

“I don’t think the point of tonight should be comparing relationship fails,” interrupted Taichi. He paused, “Because clearly, I would win.”

“Says who?”

“Fine. You get left at the altar, and then you can win.”

“Oh, sure,” shot back Daisuke, “pull that card and win every time. Real mature of you.”

“Well, this is turning out to be quite an inspiring gathering,” said Takeru cheerfully. 

“How is competing about this topic supposed to help anyone feel better?” asked Yamato.

His brother’s cheer faded to confusion. “We’re here to make him feel better?”

Daisuke pouted. “Like you’ve never been there,” he muttered resentfully. “I’m pretty sure we’ve all been losers in this department, at least once.”

“Well,” Takeru cleared his throat, nonchalant, “ _ technically _ , I’ve never been dumped. So it sounds like you three are the losers, not me. I’ve got the perfect record.”

“And your last steady relationship was when?” asked Yamato, voice cool.

His brother hesitated, calculating quickly in his head and blanching at the outcome. “All right, fine. But on the grand scale of pathetic-ness, I’m best ranked. All hail.” 

They raised their milk cartons instinctively, with no enthusiasm. “Cheers.”

Silence settled in the moment after, and Taichi leaned forward against the railing, chin propped up on his palm. The cityscape was sprawled before them, the street and building lights twinkling against the dark night. He could hear the sounds of traffic below them, though their particular road was not frequented by many travelers. In fact it was relatively peaceful from their perspective, and he could see why Daisuke would come here if he did often, as he imagined the man must. He would, if he could. It was a good place to think. 

Takeru, however, had other thoughts in mind completely. “You know who’s cute?” he asked rhetorically, head tilted to the side. “Your boss.”

Taichi glanced at him, growing still, saying nothing, and Yamato rolled his eyes. 

Daisuke craned his neck, “Mimi?”

“Sure. You don’t think so?”

“She’s like my sister.”

Yamato hesitated, recalling previous conversations. “Don’t you already have a sister?” 

“Yeah, which is why it would be weird. It’s like incest.”

Takeru raised an eyebrow. “So you  _ have _ thought about it.” 

“Wait—are we talking about Daisuke thinking about his boss or his sister?”

“I guess both.”

Daisuke let out a strangled choke.

Taichi shook his head, disapproving, and joined in the conversation when he thought it was safe enough yet. “That’s pretty weird of you, Daisuke.”

“But I—?”

Takeru was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Has anyone else noticed that he still hasn’t denied either fantasy?”

“The  _ fuck _ —?”

And Yamato interrupted with saving grace, “Someone change the subject before he has an aneurysm.”

“She’s got that boyfriend though,” remarked Takeru sadly. 

Daisuke shrugged. “Not really. She and Jou had a big fight. I think they went on a break.”

Taichi kept still, staring at his hands as he processed the unexpected news with wide eyes, and Yamato paused, lowering his hands to his lap. “That’s not really like them.”

“Tell me about it. But I guess it was one of those fights that’s a long time coming. Anyway,” he added after a moment, “she hasn’t been in the shop for a couple days now. I’ve been taking care of things there, but I haven’t spoken to her much since she first told me what happened.”

Taichi turned the milk carton over in his hands, picking at the sales sticker with a twitchy forefinger. He kept his tone casual. “Is she all right?” 

Daisuke started to shrug, then he shook his head slowly. “Probably not.”

Yamato raised a curious eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be going to see how she is?”

“Should I come, too?” volunteered Takeru, perking up at the thought of comforting a despondent yet beautiful young woman. 

But Daisuke shook his head again, the scowl growing on his face. “No. She called Michael over after her fight with Jou. She’s been talking to him ever since.”

Yamato reached for another carton of milk as his younger brother questioned, puzzled, “Who’s Michael?”

He sighed loudly, face scrunched. “You know how some people have that one person who knows them real well, trusts them with everything, even though they can also go months or years without meeting? But whenever they do call them, they’re always there? That’s what Michael is to Mimi.” His grimace darkened, casting his expression into the realm of possessed demonic rage. “I hate him.”

“Because he’s your rival for being her confidante?” summarized Yamato perfectly, reading between the lines of the young chef’s vocalized resentment with exacting accuracy. 

Daisuke glowered, refusing to admit that he had been figured out so well and so easily. “ _ No _ ,” he exaggerated, “because he just sucks. He’s a sucky sucking sucker.”

“There’s no need to censor yourself,” said Takeru.

He did not hear the joke, staring at the drink in his hands. The frustration in his voice spoke to a lot more disappointment than he would ever admit, settling on the first outburst that came to mind, “I hate losing to pretty boys.”

Speaking at last after a silence the others had not realized he’d fallen into, Taichi recovered his good-natured humor and attempted a sympathetic pat on the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re pretty, too, Daisuke.”

“Like a picture,” offered Takeru, while Yamato’s contribution to the cheering-up-fest was refraining from rolling his eyes too obviously. 

Daisuke shrugged them all off. “Whatever. I’m used to it.”

Taichi glanced at him, the matter-of-fact tone striking his ears as one that was all too familiar. The younger man was slurping the last of his third carton, contended and kicking the wall with the back of his scuffed sneakers, but the slouch in his shoulders told more than the nonchalant ease with which he tried to pass it off. Taichi looked away, raising the straw to his lips and taking a sip. “Well, Dais, if I were a woman—,”

The man groaned, knocking his head back with a sigh. “Please don’t do that. That makes it worse—and creepy.”

“Fine. Then if I were gay, you would be on my list.”

Daisuke peeked out of an eye, appraising him. “Where on the list?”

“After me,” said Yamato with cool confidence, eyes closed. “Way, way after.”

“How’s that fair?” pouted the surly chef, discovering a new thing to be wounded over.

Takeru looked meditative. “If I’m on the list, too, does that make us all incestuous?”

Taichi’s eyebrow twitched. “Everyone knows the list is not real, right?”

The younger men dissolved into protests, remarks hurling back and forth between them so quickly that Taichi had trouble keeping track of who was speaking to whom, though it was certainly not directed at either himself or Yamato (who remained inattentive with his eyes firmly shut, perhaps to wish away the entire conversation before him).

“Why’s it not real?”

“Why can’t it be real?”

“Where am I on  _ your _ list?”

“I don’t even know you well enough to put you on my list!”

“I’m blond and adorable. What else is there to know?”

Yamato interrupted at last, “I think the list metaphor’s been done. Let’s not run the original sentiment completely into the ground.”

Taichi straightened, preening. “You liked my metaphor? That’s a first.”

“You were bound to get lucky at least once.”

“Very funny,” said Taichi, sticking out his tongue childishly. “You still admit that you think something I said has character-building value.”

“You’ll never be able to prove it.”

“I will. I’m gonna write it down, put it in my sock drawer, keep it for all eternity as a loving reminder.”

Takeru was laughing, “Do you even own more than two pairs of socks?”

“It’s an expression. That’s where men keep their cherished keepsakes, after all.”

“In a sock drawer?”

Daisuke looked confused. “I don’t do that.” Then he corrected himself quickly, “Well, I mean I kept the purple bracelet I’d bought in my closet for a few weeks before I finally worked up the nerve to give it to her, but it wasn’t a sock drawer.” His face fell again, reminding himself of this sad fact of the recent days. “Gave it to her right before she picked the other guy, too. Great timing, isn’t it?”

“Maybe the sock drawer would have helped with the luckiness,” said Takeru, shrugging. “I’ve never had one, but I’ve never really given girls jewelry so I don’t need one to keep said jewelry in. But you’ve got one, don’t you, Yamato?”

“Yeah, that’s where he kept the—,” and Taichi stopped suddenly, horrified. “Ah, shit.” He winced, guilty gaze avoiding his best friend’s, whose cool blue eyes seemed to grow darker. 

Yamato stared at him hard, speaking into the mouth of the carton quietly, “So you know.”

Taichi didn’t confirm it, shifting uncomfortably, and Yamato looked away. “She told you?”

Again, he did not respond, but Yamato did not need him to. “So that’s why.”

“No,” said Taichi at once, recovering from his mistake. “That’s not it.”

It was Yamato’s turn to say nothing, his hands curling into fists on his knees, as Takeru and Daisuke glanced at each other warily. 

Then Yamato stood, “Thanks for the invite, Daisuke.”

Taichi sighed, “Wait a minute—,”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he interrupted at once, turning his back before Taichi could reply.

He slammed his carton down beside Daisuke, leaving the younger men on the rooftop as he climbed down after tall blond. Yamato had already taken several steps down the street, crossing the road, by the time Taichi caught up with him, grabbing his elbow. “Will you stop being dramatic for one second and let me explain?”

“No,” said Yamato suddenly, yanking back, “you can explain to me why she has no trouble talking to everyone about this except me.”

Taichi gestured in exasperation. “I’m just really approachable.”

“Forget it,” the man hissed, turning away.

“Wait, come on.” Taichi fell into step beside him, not trying to get him to stop, but only moving to keep up with his angry strides. “Listen, there’s a lot more about—about what’s going with her reasons than just you.”

Yamato stopped at last. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said, regretting it. “You’ve just got to trust me on this.”

He shook his head slowly, fingers coursing through thick blond bangs. “I hate not knowing why.”

Taichi smiled, taking a step back. “I’m familiar with the feeling,” he said. “But in your case, maybe there’s still the chance of finding out the ‘why,’ as you say. You just need to trust her to tell you when she’s ready.”

His hand cast over his pale face, thumb brushing his bottom lip. 

Taichi nodded back in the direction where the others still waited. “We can make a game out of the guessing at least.”

But Yamato only shrugged, smiling a little this time. “I think I’m just going to go home.”

“You sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Taichi hesitated. “You’re not going to call her, are you? Should I punch you, just in case? I feel like I owe you one of these kinds of punches.”

“I’ll see you later, Tai,” said Yamato, rolling his eyes.

He lingered at the corner, watching Yamato to disappear across the street. As soon as he had, Taichi turned on his heels, hand shooting out to wave down the nearest taxi. He pulled out his phone after climbing into the back of the cab, flipping on the screen light. It illuminated the most recent message, and his fingers hesitated over the keypad. Then he turned the phone on silent, slipping it back into his pocket, leaving Catherine’s text unanswered. 

He was debating the stupidity of his impulse actions the entire ride up the elevator to her floor. His mind was a complete blank, and he assumed he’d know what to say, knew how he’d explain away his reason for being there, when he saw her. But that wasn’t what happened. 

Instead, he heard anxious footsteps thundering towards the door, the lock unclick and the knob turn. She was wearing fleece pajama pants and matching peach tank under a frilly apron. Her hair had been teased out into a nest of tangled, frizzy knots, and her face was blotchy with puffed and swollen hazel eyes. She was holding a wooden spoon dripping batter in one hand, the other braced against the doorpost. 

“Oh,” she said dumbly, crestfallen. “I thought you were Jou.”

He hesitated, “No.”

She chewed her lip. “Daisuke tell you then, what happened?”

He shuffled his feet. “Yes.”

She opened her mouth, but then pressed her lips together in a tight line. “Fine,” she said, and turned on her heels to scurry back to the kitchen, leaving him at the entrance. 

Recovering, Taichi quickly stepped into the flat, shutting out the cold night behind him.

It was not the first time he had been there, but it was the first time he’d come alone, and seen her alone. The air smelled of baked chocolate and moist cake batter, and in the background was the crooning vocals of a melancholic female singer. It was toasty warm, perhaps a little too much so, but he accounted for the increased temperature to the fact that she had appeared to have been baking, the oven’s warm glow heating up the rest of the small flat. 

Still feeling hesitant, he peered around the corner of the hallway, glimpsing her moving about the kitchen on the other end of the living room. 

“Got a bake sale coming up?” he questioned, dark brown eyes scanning the rows upon rows of cupcakes, scones, muffins, and other cakes of all shapes and sizes that covered every inch of available surface. 

She did not appear to hear him, or at least ignored him, so he came closer, staring in awe at the amount of food he passed along the way.

“I just needed something to pass the time,” she said. “You know, until Jou comes back and we—and we have our talk. He told me to wait until he had some time to think, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m waiting.”

“Ah,” said Taichi, unsure. “And did he mention he was hungry, low-blood sugar or anything?”

“I’m trying out a few new recipes.” She pointed to the pad of paper on the edge of the kitchen counter, where her scribbles and measurements had been crossed out, circled, and underlined in various degrees of success and failure with each culinary experiment. 

He glanced at the piles of dirty bowls and utensils in a tower in the sink. “Wouldn’t it be easier to try that out at the catering shop? You could make your part-time staff do all the cleaning. Koushiro and I could taste test. We wouldn’t even sue you if it turned out to be food poisoning.” He paused, “Well, maybe I would, if I could get a really good deal. Nothing personal.”

But she shook her head, annoyed. “I can’t leave,” she stressed again. “I have to stay here.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “If I stay here, I’ll see him, because he has to come back. If I went to the shop, I’d miss him. I have to be here, so I don’t miss him.”

Taichi held his tongue, allowing her slightly flawed logic to go untouched, as something he had learned not to do from the other people in his life. “Sounds about right.”

She looked pleased, and he wondered if he was the first of her friends to agree that she hadn’t lost her mind. 

“But,” he went on, because he had to bring her to reality in some gentle way, “I think he’d be able to find you wherever you were. He’s pretty smart.” He tried to think of another compliment, “Like a really…good dog.”

At last, Mimi raised her chin, staring at him.

“You know,” he added, uncomfortable, “because he can find things.”

She blinked, seeming to realize suddenly and at once who he was. She appeared startled. “What are you doing here?”

He gestured wordlessly to the door, “I just—you  _ just _ let me in—,”

She waved his confusion off. “I thought you and Daisuke you were having a boys’ night out?” She paused, pouting a little, “He’s been all about those recently, and he won’t tell me what’s happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he interrupted at once and a little too quickly, earning him another one of her suspicious looks. “Guys just need nights out.” His gaze lingered on her ratty mess of hair. “Maybe you do, too, you know.”

“I told you, I can’t leave,” she said, stubborn, and he rolled his eyes. She refused to listen to his logic again, returning to the large bowl on the counter and spooning lumps of dough onto a cookie sheet. “And you tell Daisuke to stop complaining to you about it. It’s only been a couple of days. He’s running the shop just fine.”

“That’s the point, Mimi.” Taichi shook his head. “It’s not his job to run the store. It’s yours, together. You can’t leave everything to him without—,”

“Don’t tell me how to run my business, Taichi.”

“I’m not trying to,” he protested, agreeing with her at once, “and I don’t need to. But neither can Daisuke without you.” She kept her back to him, furiously scooping out the last of the batter and sliding the baking sheet into the hot oven. He approached her carefully as she set the timer, pausing at her elbow, and when he placed a careful hand on her shoulder, she did not brush him off. “You think I don’t know what this feels like?”

“Everyone knows what it feels like,” she said quietly, “but that doesn’t mean everyone understands  _ this _ .”

He let her go. “What happened?”

She scrubbed at her cheeks, smearing a little bit of cookie batter onto her jaw. “I said some really terrible things to him.”

He reached out to flick the specks of batter from her skin. “People say terrible things when they argue. He knows you didn’t mean it.”

Mimi’s eyes filled up with tears. “That’s the thing, though. I think he knows I didn’t.”

He couldn’t say anything in response, and she pressed the heels of her palms over her eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath. He felt his chest tighten, watching her crumble to a crouch on the tiled floor, and the desire to touch her was overwhelming. 

He stood awkwardly over her. “What can I do?” he asked, because for once he was afraid to guess wrong. 

She shrugged, heaving. “You could sit with me.”

“Okay,” he agreed, but he did not move.

So she reached up and pulled on his arm, forcing him down into the space beside her. She led his hand up and around her shoulders, lacing her fingers through his, then sank to the kitchen floor, curled on her side over his forearm. He laid awkwardly behind her, holding his breath, her head tucked neatly into the space under his chin. 

She turned her face into his arm, speech muffled. “Closer,” she said.

“Okay.” And he slowly closed the distance between them. 

“Closer.” 

Her voice was lonely and empty, and his throat seemed to close at the sound. 

“Okay,” he whispered back. 

She fell silent, and he hesitated. Her uncombed hair tickled his nose, his cheeks warming to a pale crimson. His free hand stretched carefully to her temple, tucking stray strands behind her ear. His thumb travelled across the curve of her cheekbone, skirting across soft skin, tracing every line, settling into the dimple under her trembling lip. 

She moved suddenly, and his fingers were caught in her hair when she rolled over and looked up at him. “He’s going to come back.” It wasn’t a statement and it wasn’t a question; it was a prayer, and she looked miserable. 

His thumb pressed deeper into the dimple under her lip, tugging at the skin with a teasing grin. “He’d be an idiot not to,” he said, “and he never really struck me as the idiotic type.” 

Her voice was anxious. “You promise?” 

His smile was kind. “I promise.”

She rolled back on her side, still clutching his arm to her stomach, and his smile faded.

Sucking in his breath, he shook the confusion from his clouded head and tried to ease quietly back from her, debating how to approach the situation with delicacy (something he had never been accused of possessing). He channeled Yamato, but came up with the sudden urge to buy socks, and so abandoned that tactic. He considered Hikari’s response, but the conversation about Daisuke and his sister resurrected itself from the back of his mind like an ominous warning and he quickly moved on, suppressing a shudder, and settled at last on Sora. 

So he gave Mimi an awkward pat on the top of her head at the same time that he tried to wiggle free, overly confident in his ability to be soothing when in reality the gesture was by all accounts too forceful.

“Ow,” she mumbled, but he did not hear this, his palm continuing to strike her temple the way a fat-handed giant would an elderly pet. 

His platitudes were embarrassingly transparent. “Don’t worry about it right now. Just get some rest.”

“How am I supposed to rest when you keep hitting me?” she grunted. She flopped away and over onto her stomach but made no effort to right herself, still sprawled on the kitchen floor. 

“Those were sympathy pats,” said Taichi crossly, miffed. He flexed his other arm carefully, trying to shake the feeling back. “Besides, you were the one lying on top of me like a dead antelope.”

She gave a snort of indignant anger. “That’s rude. Don’t you know how much an antelope weighs?”

“I do now.”

“I am not that heavy!”

“It’s a compliment!”

“ _ How _ ?”

Taichi did expect her to have stuck with the topic this long, and he scrambled. “Healthy girls are attractive!”

“Oh, forget it,” she hissed, interrupting him. She turned her head so her face pressed directly into the tiled floor of the kitchen, hands curled underneath her chest. “Just leave me alone,” she said into the ground. 

In spite of himself, he smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Your weird, sick fetish for drama is not as endearing as you think it is.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” she pouted.

“Come on,” he said, rolling his eyes. He placed his hands on either of her shoulders, lifting her easily into the sitting position. She allowed him, whimpering a little in protest, but remained upright this time. “Is this how you want him to find you, lying like a codfish on the floor?”

“Yes,” but she shook her head. 

“Really?”

“Well, how else should he find me?”

Taichi rubbed her shoulders. “How about at your apprenticeship?”

She immediately stiffened, muscles tense, but he did not remove his hands. He could almost hear her scowl. “Not you, too.”

“Yes, me, too. You can’t keep ducking away from the real issue, Mimi.”

Her sarcasm was venomous. “And you don’t?”

He shook her shoulders a little, her head bobbing back and forth in what could have been a comical way if she weren’t radiating such murderous energy. “The next time I almost lose the best thing in my life, we can fight about what I do or don’t do.”

She sank into him, head bent low. “I did lose it. I am losing him.”

Taichi pulled her closer. “No, you didn’t. It’s not always a bad thing, taking a break, and it doesn’t mean everything’s over. After you’ve both had time to think, it’ll be easier to talk.” His fingers tugged at the ends of her knotted hair. “But I don’t think it would hurt to run a comb through this before he sees you.” His thumb got caught in a tangle, and her neck was yanked back. “Seriously, when was the last time you took a brush to this?” he asked in disbelief, trying to wiggle his hand free, her head jerking around painfully with every shake. 

“Stop trying to help!” cried Mimi, “You’re just making things worse— _ ow _ !”

“Don’t blame me for the bird’s nest on top of your head.”

“And what the hell is on top of yours?”

“Hey,” he said viciously, offended, “my hair is always excellent. You’re just jealous.”

She snorted, finally yanking his fingers loose from her tangles. “Of what? That?” And she plopped her hand on the top of his head with little ceremony, burying her fingers in thick brown curls. She paused, “Oh, wow, it is soft.”

He sat back, vindicated, and she moved with him, rubbing at his hair a little too aggressively, fingers turning over wisp and curl in a way that made him feel intoxicated. “It’s my conditioner.”

“Made of what? Unicorn tears?” She gasped, “My God, though, we should be killing all the unicorns if this is how nice their tears feel.”

“I’ve always thought so.” He cocked an eyebrow, amused. “My head is not a magic lamp, Mimi. You can stop rubbing.”

But she didn’t, and he rather thought he didn’t mind, all joking aside. 

“It’s like a teddy bear,” she gushed, voice soft.

“I was going for ruggedly suave, but teddy bear is all right, too, I guess—why is that funny?”

She had stopped, removing her hand as she dissolved into giggles. “What on earth is rugged about you?”

“Right, like you’re the expert,” he said, inexplicably a little hurt by the idea that she didn’t think the adjective fit him, but strangely a lot more upset when her touch left his skin. “You’re dating a doctor.”

“Jou is very rugged.”

He blanched. “I’m sorry, what dictionary are you using?”

“And he deserves a lot more than me, doesn’t he?” She sounded tired, drained from the experience of the last few days. 

“Don’t say that. You’re rugged, too.” Taichi lifted her chin with a finger, smiling lightly when her gaze met his. “Listen, this whole thing is going to blow over. You two will get back together, and you’ll build your lives dictionary-free.” 

Her smile was watery, but she did not start crying again, only chuckling a little, with a laugh like bells. She was calmer now, and he knew he should let go, but he couldn’t. He was close enough to see every color in her hazel eyes, and he was sure she could see right through him. He hadn’t felt this transparent in a long time. 

But she wasn’t pushing back, and so he didn’t pull away, and the line that friends weren’t supposed to cross was coming up all too fast. 

She blinked, breath shallow. “Thanks for sitting with me,” she whispered.

He gently rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

The front door slammed, and they froze. 

Taichi felt the blood rushing to his head at the same time all other sensations seemed to leave him, but when he looked up, it was not the pair of eyeglasses he expected staring back at him in shock. 

“Miyako,” gasped Mimi, her face red. 

“What’s he doing here?” asked the young woman, not missing a beat. “I thought you said Michael was coming over again tonight.” She gestured to the bottle of white wine she carried, “I brought refreshments.” Then she paused, sniffing the air. “What’s that smell?”

Mimi lurched from Taichi’s arms with a strangled cry, diving for the oven. The door fell open just as smoke came billowing out, filling up the small kitchen. Taichi struggled blindly to his feet, coughing, while Mimi’s wails of frustration at her burned cookies sounded throughout the apartment. “Now I have to start over!”

“Why is he here, Mimi?” Miyako repeated over her friend’s exaggerated grumbling, but was ignored completely, as Mimi busied herself with clearing off the cookie tray and beginning the recipe again. She kept her gaze from either of them, busily reaching for the carton of eggs and muttering to herself.

So it was left to Taichi to answer, and Miyako turned her gaze towards him expectantly. 

In the months he’d gotten to know Mimi, Taichi had only encountered her younger ex-neighbor a few times. She was an opinionated, excitable woman who seemed nice enough on the whole, but had a tendency to frighten him with her enthusiasm at times. That, and Taichi had always entertained the nagging belief that she didn’t really like him very much. The sneaking suspicion was practically carved in stone now, as she eyed him through rounded spectacles, as though he couldn’t possibly be up to any good in Mimi’s apartment alone with her. 

Uninterested in creating conflict, he coughed, “Well, anyway, maybe I should be—I should go.”

Miyako did not hesitate. “Yes, you should.”

He felt his face warm up at the implication, but any defense he could make was stuck in the back of a dry throat. So he straightened, stiff and suddenly very conscious of how gangly he could be when his confidence withered away. He shook down the sleeves of his jacket, pulling them over his palms, using the time it took to glance back at Mimi. She was furiously stirring the batter in the bowl again, concentration distracted, but he thought she was purposely not looking at him with Miyako in the room. 

So he started towards the door, resigned to keep silent, until he passed the tall young woman in the hallway, and his eyes fell on the purple bracelet she wore as she lifted her hand to straighten her spectacles. 

He stopped at once.

“What?” asked Miyako, eyeing his gaping expression with slight alarm. 

“You’re Miyako,” said Taichi, astonished.

“…Yes,” she confirmed after a hesitant moment, wondering if Mimi only enjoyed befriending exceptionally slow people. “We have met before, you know.”

Taichi repeated himself. “But you’re—you—you’re  _ Daisuke’s _ Miyako.”

Her mouth parted, face drained of color, and Mimi finally glanced up from the kitchen counter. “What’s going on?”

Taichi started to answer, then yelped in pain when Miyako’s foot shot out and smacked into his knee with the devastating precision of a martial artist. He lurched backwards, tripping over the shoe rack by the door and collapsing against the wall, knocking over the coatrack stand. 

“What on earth—?”cried Mimi, jumping at the sudden noise, but before she could come into the living room, Miyako had leapt forward, yanking a bewildered Taichi back to his feet and throwing him into the outside hallway, hurtling herself after him. “Where are you two—?”

The door slammed shut, cutting her off. 

Taichi backed away at once, rubbing his knee. “Listen, I didn’t—,” he stammered out as a protest when she advanced upon him threateningly.

“What do you know?” she interrupted, fists clenched.

His back collided with the balcony as he ran out of escape options. His voice dropped to a terrified whisper. “If I tell you, are you going to throw me over the railing?”

Miyako stared. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re just—you’re really scary,” he said, swallowing hard. 

But she hadn’t been listening, her thoughts moving quickly. She chewed her lip anxiously, pulling on the bracelet. “Daisuke told you what happened?”

He shifted on his feet, knee still throbbing. “Some of it.”

“Oh,” she said. Then she asked, “How is he?”

“Fine,” he answered confidently, though he was certain she could see through the charade. 

She did not indicate being able to, however, and only nodded, gaze distracted from him. Her fingers played absentmindedly with the bracelet around her wrist, the plastic beads sliding together with tiny tinkling sounds. It was a long moment before she spoke, and when she did, Taichi was startled to hear not a reprimand or a defense, but whispered truth, because she knew he would never repeat it. 

So she confessed quietly, “Nothing ever works out when you date a friend.” She shook her head mournfully, “Even worse when it happens at the end of something else, you know? Every time I’ve seen someone end a relationship to start another—it’s just bad karma, heavy luggage to bring into something new. I was afraid…I  _ am _ afraid I’d ruin things. That I’d end up without either of them,” and her chin jerked towards Mimi’s closed apartment door. She seemed to hesitate, then gave a loud groan of distress and clapped a hand over her face, leaning against the door. 

Taichi, without marveling at the coincidence of his having to play the comforting role several times in the span of this one evening, fell into the routine. His hand stretched out to pat Miyako’s forehead several times in rapid succession. “There, there, now.”

“You’re really shit at this,” she mumbled, unresponsive to his poor display of empathy. 

Well, at least someone could see it.

He withdrew his hand and shrugged, accepting this as a turning moment in his friendship with the woman. He spoke casually, “I don’t understand why people have liked opening up to me lately. I’ve been saying for years I’m not good at this stuff.”

She raised her chin, studying him in a way that blew his previous assumption of a budding friendship clear out the water. “And yet, here you are.”

His brow furrowed, disliking her tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Miyako lowered her hand, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s like I said: relationships that start with the end of another are never good karma.”

“We’re  _ friends _ . That’s it.” Her gaze glanced back at him coolly, as though challenging him on the truth of the statement. He grit his jaw, meeting her calculating stare with stubborn denial, swallowing back the awkward lump in his thick throat. “I’m only looking out for her.”

Her next words were not accusing, but firm. “I know that’s what you think you’re doing, Taichi,” she said with a sigh. “But you’re just making this more complicated.”

But he couldn’t agree, because he wouldn’t admit it. 

She was insistent, though gentle. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is to know when something’s just not a good idea, before anyone gets hurt.”

His gaze settled once more on the purple plastic bracelet on her wrist. “You mean, the way you did?”

She followed his eye line, staring at the inexpensive trinket. The pause was long enough for him to regret making the remark, seeing the soft way her expression seemed to color with mixed emotions, until she blinked it away. “You’re right. Have to practice what I preach, don’t I?” She unfastened the clasp and pushed the cheap jewelry into his startled hands. “Give that back to him, will you?”

He stood for a long time in the doorway after she’d gone inside, holding the little bracelet tightly in a stiff, clutched fist, the throbbing of his knee beating steadily. Finally, he pushed the trinket into the pocket of his jeans, feeling the weight of something thick and unbearable sinking onto his chest, and turned towards the elevator. 

It was halfway between floors six and seven that he saw all the texts he’d missed.

**_How was the night with the boys?_ **

**_Thanks for coming over, but you left way too much choco milk here._ **

**_Drinks Friday?_ **

**_Where are you? Call me or Hikari back ASAP._ **

**_Where’d you go? Hikari’s looking for you._ **

**_Hey, Hikari called, you need to call her back._ **

His breath caught, staring at the last messages. He punched the button for the lobby again, heart pounding in his ears. The doors opened at last, and he stumbled into the corridor, thumb hitting the only speed dial he had in his phone. 

Her voice was thick. “Tai?”

“’Kari!” he exclaimed, quickening his pace to through the lobby and out onto the street, eyes searching for another cab. “Sorry, my phone was—what’s wrong?”

“Where are you?” She sounded distracted, like static, and he had to press his other hand over his ear to concentrate on what she whispered back. “Sora went by your apartment, but she said you weren’t there.” 

“I just—I was with—,” and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking his head violently, “Yamato said you were looking for me?”

“It’s, um, it’s Dad,” she started crying, “and he’s not—he’s not doing well, Tai. Willis and I just got to the hospital. Can you come? Mom really—we really think you should be here.” 

“Oh,” he breathed, gasping. “I—I’m—,”

“Just hurry,” she said, and hung up before he could answer, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it together if he couldn’t for her.


	14. And I don’t care about where you’ve been

 

“Snack time!” announced Taichi, mustering up all the enthusiasm he could find over the sadly arranged spread his mother had prepared on a serving tray. He carried the platter of orange juice, grapefruit slices, and rice crackers into the bedroom of his parents’ flat, walking carefully to avoid spilling. “Who’s hungry?”

His father lay on his back under piles of thick blankets and sheets. Taichi immediately paused at the doorway, surveying him carefully, waiting for the rise and fall of his chest. “Dad? You awake?”

But only stillness answered, and no breath came. 

The tray clattered to the floor.  “ _ Dad _ !” 

Susumu’s eyes snapped open, face contorted into a pained wince at the sound of shattered glass. “What?”

Taichi froze, arms outstretched in mid-sprint to the bedside. “You—what are you—you were—what—?”

Susumu yawned. “I was trying to see how long I could hold my breath. I’m up to thirty-eight seconds,” he added, deeply pleased with himself.

“For fuck’s sake, Dad!” His son collapsed into the armchair across from the bed, heart pounding so loudly he felt like the earth was shaking. 

“You try not being bored, chained up at home like this!” protested his father, disgruntled, and he squirmed around under the covers, stretching out his arms and swinging his legs over the side as he sat up. “I’ve read every book we own in this house, _twice_ , including those vegan cookbooks that I still don’t understand why we have; it’s that weird time of the day when nothing good is on television; and I’ve run out of paper to make airplanes with and fly out the window into the neighbor’s balcony. What else is there to do?”

Taichi cast a trembling hand over his face, gathering his composure. “Dad, I understand you’ve been on leave from work for a while now, and that you’re getting antsy with only a few days left until you get to go back,” he took a deep breath, “but could you please try and think of _any_ other way to spend your time instead of shaving years of _my_ life with these pranks?”

When his father pouted, it was remarkable how much like a child he appeared. He wondered how his mother ever lasted in an argument with the man. 

“What happened to your sense of humor?”

He grit his teeth, heartbeat finally returning to its normal pace. “I believe it killed itself when you packed the glove compartment in Mom’s car with confetti canons and they burst open on the ride home from the hospital.”

Susumu chuckled. “Yeah, I forgot those were in there. I’d thought she’d make use of something in the compartment before then, but that just made the explosion better. Pretty neat they still worked after sitting inside for months, wasn’t it?”

Taichi wanted to agree, but he was certain if he did, vocally or otherwise, his mother would be somehow alerted to the action, even from all the way across town where she had gone with Hikari for some weekend shopping. He was not interested in getting in trouble with his mother, despite his current age. He was pretty sure she still had the authority to ground him, and he knew if she got angry enough, he’d ground himself in advance just to save her the effort.

“I think we can just call it a blessing that it didn’t send you back to the emergency room with another heart attack.”

“ _ Cardiac event _ ,” Susumu corrected at once. “And of course it wouldn’t. The first was nothing but a fluke. You know how those doctors always make a big deal out of nothing.”

Taichi did not comment; he was determined to not revisit those days again, and the only way to do it was to never acknowledge conversation that alluded to what had really happened that week. Instead, he slid from the chair and started gathering up the rice crackers. “Doctors do have a flair for drama.”

“Being the star of all those ridiculous medical shows doesn’t help,” agreed his father. “How does your friend’s boyfriend do it?”

Taichi shook his head. “He’s not her boyfriend anymore.” But his voice was distracted, and the last cracker crumbled easily in his hand, and the way he paused did nothing to keep up the façade. 

Susumu observed him silently for a few seconds, then stood and moved to the doorway, starting to bend over to help pick up the mess. Taichi’s arm shot up to stop him, “No, it’s fine, Dad, I’ve got it. You sit down. Just rest.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?” said his father with a teasing chuckle that the young man did no return. His smile disappeared. “I’m doing much better, Taichi. You don’t have to come by weekends and weeknights just to check. I’m not going anywhere.”

Taichi reached for the last grapefruit slice that had slid underneath the dresser. “You almost did.”

Susumu put his hand on the back of his son’s neck, pulling him to his feet. “But I didn’t.”

He couldn’t look at him, staring at the floor where the broken glass lay in pieces on the tray. “But you almost did.” He rubbed the side of thumb over his nose, unable to stop the trembling smile from coming to his lips. “What an end to this year that would have been.”

The elder Yagami returned the small smile, wisely keeping silent. 

Taichi took a deep breath. “I was really scared.”

“Me, too,” admitted Susumu softly.

And somehow, that made him feel better. 

Leaving the mess on the floor, he sank into the armchair again as Susumu settled himself on the edge of the bed, stretching his legs before him. “But I mean it. You don’t have to come over so often. You’re going to spoil your mother into thinking this is the new routine, and when you start returning to normal, I’m the one who’s going to have to listen to her complaining about her ungrateful children.”

Taichi rolled his eyes. “Since when has Mom ever thought of me and ‘Kari as anything but angels?”

He snorted. “Your sister, maybe. You?” He shook his head. “This is the woman who found you trying to clean the family cat in the dishwasher.”

The younger man groaned, tossing his head back. “Are we ever not going to talk about that story? I was four-years-old!”

“A four-year-old with freakishly long arms to operate the buttons on the thing.”

“I was a beautiful baby.”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

Taichi mumbled a protest. “Aren’t parents supposed to think their kids are the best?”

“You know how we feel about Hikari.”

He shook his head, swallowing the laugh, though his dark brown eyes shone in delight at the normalcy of their banter. It felt good to settle into the familiar, to know things were okay. That’s all Taichi wanted these days, had been needing for much longer.

He paused, picking at a loose thread in the hem of his red and black plaid button-up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” said his father, scratching his ear with another yawn. 

He focused his attention to the detail in the loose thread with unnatural interest. “I know you’ve both told us how you two met in college, but that it wasn’t until your last year that you got together. Did the time in between help you figure out—I mean…like, how did you know Mom was the one for you?”

Susumu considered his answer, tilting his head back so he could study the ceiling as he formulated his response. “I suppose I just realized one day that hers was the story I wanted to be.” He nodded, “So that’s what I did. It all just fell into place after I accepted it.”

Taichi continued tugging at the thread. “You make it sound easy, knowing something like that.”

“Oh, it was hell,” said his father cheerfully. “By the time I realized I needed her, she was already engaged to this other guy. I had a devil of a time breaking them up.” His tone was nostalgic, as though recalling the plot of a charming romantic comedy instead of his own dubious romantic choices. 

Taichi was floored. “Mom was engaged to someone else?”

“Sure, she was. A couple of times, actually.”

His hand dropped to the armrest with a thud. “ _ What _ ?”

Susumu’s face was blank. “You’re unusually clumsy today.”

Taichi ignored the remark, still reeling from the first revelation. “How did I not know about this?” he cried, beside himself with shock. 

“Your mother was very popular,” Susumu went on matter-of-factly, as though he should have figured that out on his own. “Where else do you think your sister gets it from?”

Now Taichi was offended for an entirely different reason. “What about me?”

Susumu’s face fell. “Oh, son. No.” He shook his head. “Just no.” 

“But I do pretty well—,”

“It’s not a competition,” interrupted his father in what he evidently intended to be a soothing tone rather than the pitying one it actually was. “But if it were, Hikari would win. I mean, have you looked at that boyfriend of hers,  _ really _ looked? I would accept grandchildren from him if I really had to. And I don’t think I’d be all that bothered by them turning out blond.” He reconsidered the statement, then added hastily, “Well, not at first, if they grew out of it. Let’s face it: brunet is the way to be. Gentlemen can prefer blondes, sure, but they shouldn’t  _ be _ blond—,”

“Dad,” said Taichi, cutting into what was turning out to be another one of Susumu’s rambling opinions on what could and should be the ideal state of the world, had he been allowed to set the correct order of nature from the start, “can we go back to the Mom-was-engaged thing?”

“You should probably be asking her the story,” said Susumu. Then he paused. “Or stories, I suppose. Sometimes I find it unbelievable I ever convinced her to leave them all for me. But I am pretty precious,” he acknowledged humbly with a smirking glint in his eyes. 

Taichi sat back, shaking his head. “It’s good to know your ego hasn’t taken an ounce of a hit after all these years.”

The elder Yagami tapped a finger to his temple. “The key is to keep your mind sharp and active.”

The younger rolled his eyes. “Sure, Dad.”

“And to keep yourself surrounded by good, witty company. You know, quick banter and entertaining conversation.”

Taichi’s mouth curled into a wry smirk. “I don’t know how that will work me. Seems like you and Mom are expecting me to die alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We think you’ll get a dog.”

Taichi murmured, thinking aloud, “Catherine’s allergic to dogs.”

Susumu straightened, eyebrow arched. “Oh?”

His face felt warm, “I mean—,”

“I didn’t realize you two were serious.” 

“We’re not,” denied Taichi at once. “I mean, it’s not anything… _ real _ . It’s just—,”

“Fun?” supplied Susumu with a wink. “I know all about that kind of fun. Why, the other day when your mother and I got home after the doctor finally said I was ready for—,”

“Enough! No! Never! Stop!” cried Taichi, hysteric, waving his hands in distress. 

“I thought this is what men talked about with each other?”

But his son kept frantically gesturing about wildly like a terrified jellyfish, as though trying to physically smack away any indecent thoughts from entering his mind’s eye. “We’re not men, Dad! We’re family!”

“You weren’t this immature when I had to give you The Talk in grade school.”

Taichi paused, confused, arms splayed in the air in mid-motion. “You never gave me The Talk.”

Susumu mirrored the younger man’s bewilderment. “I didn’t?”

He made a face. “Believe me, I would have remembered. You don’t forget that kind of trauma.”

“Then how did you know anything?”

“I was there when Yamato’s dad gave it to him and Takeru. He lassoed me up with the both of them, like a discount deal on responsible parenting or something, I don’t know,” he shrugged. 

Susumu rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Hiroaki’s in journalism. He’d include all the facts. Did he tell you about—?”

“Dad,” groaned the man, smacking a hand to his face, “please stop.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know if you know everything?”

“Trust me, I figured it out.”

But that was the wrong thing to assure his father, who wiggled his brow in sly amusement. “Oh, did you now?”

“We are not talking about this anymore—,”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“No! I just don’t have anything to say to you about it!”

“Well, I do have quite a number of years of experience over you, so actually, you  _ should _ be asking me for advice.”

“That is absolutely not happening.”

“Are you sure? You could be making Catherine a lot happier if you—,”

“Catherine and I aren’t sleeping together!”

Susumu stopped his response mid-word, surprised. 

Flustered, Taichi launched to his feet, striding to the door. “You don’t have to look that shocked.”

“No, I’m not,” lied his father at once, poorly covering his tracks. He followed him into the corridor, crossing the hallway into the kitchen where Taichi selected a new glass from the cupboard to remake the snack tray. “I mean, I just—well, since it’s been a few months, I guess I just assumed—well, it’s just unexpected.”

Taichi opened the refrigerator, shaking the juice carton slightly before untwisting the cap. “I know it’s weird—,”

“No, it’s not,” interrupted Susumu firmly. “It’s your own choice, both of you.”

“Well,” said Taichi, hesitating over how much he wanted to relay his personal life, but deciding in the end that his father did know him best of all, “it was more me. You know, the whole should-I-trust-women-again thing.” He left the explanation at that, uncomfortable with getting deeper.

Susumu spoke kindly, voice calm. “You understand, of course, that you can’t lump all women together because of one person?”

“Even if that one person did a pretty big number on me?” asked Taichi with a dry smile. He took out another glass, filling it with fresh orange juice before returning the carton to the fridge. “I told her from the start that I’m not trying to make us into anything. But it’s been a while now, and I’m not sure if I’m being all that fair to her anymore.”

Susumu was thoughtful, considering his response. He waited until they had carried their drinks to the kitchen table, taking seats across from each other, before beginning. “You know, I may kid around a lot with you,” he said with a serious hint, “but your being careful is not a sign that you’re being careless. It’s smart.”

He ran a hand through his thick hair, biting at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know.”

“But,” continued his father cautiously, “there are all kinds of intimacies, and not sharing that one doesn’t mean things aren’t real. She might not understand that if you’re not honest with her as things go on.”

Taichi shook his head, swallowing a large gulp of juice. “That was the wrong word to use. I didn’t mean it’s not real to me. It is. I just…I don’t know when I’ll be ready to give anybody anything more. Not after—,” and he stopped abruptly, breath light as the panic swelled, then forced himself to finish the thought, “—her.”

His father listened quietly, regarding him in that knowing way only the best fathers could. 

“I thought it would get easier,” said Taichi after a long moment. “For the longest time, I thought it would all stop, that one day I’d wake up and I wouldn’t feel like I’ve been drowning all these months.” He tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to shake the memories away. “But it doesn’t work that way.”

Susumu leaned forward, voice low, “You know that I would give anything to keep you from ever getting hurt, that if there was something I could have done to stop what happened, I would have already done it tenfold, don’t you?”

He nodded, “I know, Dad.” He raised his chin confidently, “And it’s been easier in different ways.”

“Because of taking the time to get to know her first?”

His hesitance was barely noticeable. “Yeah,” he nodded. “And she understand, too…Catherine does. So that’s nice.”

But Susumu noticed, because only the best fathers could. 

He did not remark on it, however, and only smiled. “Good. Glad to hear it.” He continued casually, rising from the table, “When you meet the right person, it’s like waking up. It’s like getting a new script, and you know you couldn’t possibly play any other role. It’s okay to be terrified about it, so it’s fine to take your time. It’s even better if you do, I promise it is.” He rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder as he passed behind his chair. “But that’s what your mother and I want for you both: to find your stories, and to live them.”

He smiled, “Even if it’s just ‘Yagami Taichi: Dog Owner’?”

“Please do not send me to your ancestors in the afterlife without aspiring to anything more than that.”

“As long as you promise not to hurry up getting there, I’ll aspire to anything.”

“Even ‘Yagami Taichi: Greatest Prime Minister The World Will Ever Know’?”

He blanched, “You’re really not going to meet me half-way on these life ambitions, are you?”

Susumu ruffled his hair, the way he’d always done since he was a boy. “Not to worry. There’s always Hikari.”

“And what am I always there to do?” inquired the subject in question, emerging from the front door with an armful of parcels and shopping bags. 

“Becoming Prime Minister,” clarified Taichi, moving to help her carry the items inside the flat. His mother came in soon after, gratefully allowing her son to take one of the larger bags from her arms as she did. 

“The Greatest Prime Minister The World Will Ever Know,” corrected Susumu, accepting a kiss on the cheek from his daughter in greeting.

“Oh, I could see that,” said Yuuko, nodding enthusiastically.

Hikari smiled, shaking her head at the ridiculous notion. “I’m sure that would go over well with my students, leaving them for politics.”

“All you’d have to do is outlaw naps, and they’d vote you into a dictatorship for life,” Susumu pointed out, delighted by the possibility. 

Unfortunately, Yuuko overheard the keyword in his remark, latching onto her husband with a firm grasp around his forearm. “Speaking of naps, it’s time for yours.”

“I just had one!”

“He did not,” said Taichi. “He spent it trying to see how long he could hold his breath.”

“ _ What _ ?” exclaimed their mother, while Susumu tossed his son a wounded look of betrayal. “How is that in any way helpful for you to be practicing, or even doing at all at your age?”

“It was just a game,” protested Susumu. “And what do you mean ‘at my age’?”

“It means you’re really, really old, Dad,” said Taichi, terrifically blunt.

“But always young enough to kick your butt, and don’t you forget it.”

Yuuko fluttered around her husband bossily, ignoring the men’s banter, steering her husband towards the bedroom. “If you didn’t have your nap, did you have your grapefruit and crackers?”

“I hate grapefruit and crackers.”

“That’s why you have them with the juice, so you can wash it dow—what on earth is all this broken glass on the floor?”

“Taichi did it!”

“ _ Dad _ !”

Yuuko barked threateningly, “Taichi, come in and clean this up, right now!”

Hikari was giggling at her brother’s instinctive response to obey, watching him make a beeline to their parents’ bedroom simply from the tone of their mother’s commanding voice. 

“This is what happens when I leave you alone,” complained Yuuko’d voice loudly from the bedroom.

“That’s why you shouldn’t leave me alone,” said Susumu in response. 

“So what, I can’t even have a few moments peace to myself?”

“You said ‘farewell’ to peace the minute you said ‘yes’ to me.”

“Funny how I don’t regret it, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely….”

Taichi froze on his feet when he heard his mother giggling. 

“Don’t do that, Susumu—the doctor said—,”

“Can’t you two wait until we’re not in earshot!” shouted Taichi when his mother dissolved into giggles again while Hikari paled. He dove for her, grabbing his coat from the stand in the hallway and the young woman’s thin wrist as he yanked her to the door. It was only after they’d reached the staircase at the end of the corridor that he let her go, shuddering. 

Hikari was chewing her lip as she followed behind him. “Are you sure it’s been enough time for him to—?”

“Nope, we are not talking about this,” thundered Taichi, shaking his head furiously. 

“But the doctor said that—,”

But Taichi waved her concern away. “You know Mom is sticking hard and fast to the recovery timeline the nurses gave him. If they are, you know,” and he gulped, “then it’s only because she’s decided it’s fine, too.”

“I suppose….”

They reached the bottom of the staircase, standing outside the entrance to the building on a sunny day in the end of winter. Taichi lifted his face to the warm sun, pausing to pull on his jacket properly. “Coffee?”

Hikari agreed readily. “Are you sure you don’t have to get back?” she asked, falling into step with him. “Koushiro said you both had a lot of work to finish in the next week.”

“I refuse to work weekends,” he said, “unlike him.”

“Is that why he’s been promoted and you haven’t?”

Taichi cleared his throat, hesitant, “Actually, that’s because I’m leaving when this project finishes.”

His sister glanced up in shock, small mouth parted. “You’re quitting?”

“Leaving,” he said, preferring the euphemism. “I just feel like it’s right. There are other projects more interesting than the ones we’ve been getting, and maybe I’ve outgrown the place.” And because it was Hikari, he confessed in an off-handed tone, “Besides, it’s not exactly wonderful knowing the whole department still remembers that time I showed up drunk.”

She tacitly did not comment on the last remark, reminding him why she was the best sibling by not doing so, and instead swallowed her stunned response and smiled genuinely at him. “Well, it seems you’ve been thinking about it for a while then. I’m happy if you are. It’s exciting to start something new.”

He shrugged, soaking up the confidence-boosting praise like a shallow sponge. “I sent out my resume to a few places last week. We’ll see how things go.”

She directed them to a coffee shop on the next corner, selected a table close to the counter where she placed their orders. Peering into the bakery shelves, she pointed to a raspberry scone. “Want one?”

He shook his head, and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, right, I forgot about you and pink foods.”

“It just doesn’t make sense!”

She waved him off dismissively, returning her attention to the barista assisting her, and Taichi took a seat at the table, stretching his legs in a way that reminded him of his father. He remembered how Susumu would come home from work and do the same stretches on the couch, with Taichi mimicking each action since he’d been a toddler. Then, his little legs had barely crossed the length of the couch cushion; now, he was a good few inches taller than his father, which Susumu did not like to admit. 

He smiled to himself, amused, and Hikari raised a curious eyebrow as she took the chair opposite him. “What’s funny?”

Taichi shrugged. “This month. A strange one, hasn’t it been?”

Hikari leaned forward, her arms crossed over the tabletop. “A bit more eventful than the last, I’d agree.”

He stretched his hand so he could drum his fingers on her wrist lightly. “You all right?”

She smiled, eyes twinkling with warmth. “I am.”

He continued drumming, “The doctor says if he keeps up with his medication and diet, the risk will be low.”

“We’re lucky it is,” she replied softly. 

“The hard part will be the diet,” observed Taichi. 

“Well, that’s Mom’s job.”

“I’m not sure I’d wish her bossiness even on a healthy man.” He stopped, remembering the revelation from earlier. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to emphasize the drama of the juice gossip bomb he was about to drop on their covnersation. “Did you know Mom’s been engaged before?”

Hikari blinked, confused. “Yes. Didn’t you?”

His jaw dropped, “How did you know before me? I was born first!”

She suppressed the instinct to laugh at his dismay as he sat back, withdrawing his hands to his lap. 

“It’s just weird to think of our… _ parents _ having lives before us.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “It’s not that hard. We’ve known them all our lives, they haven’t always known us.”

“They’re strangers,” he went on, distracted. “And who is this guy? Or should I say ‘ _ guys _ ’? How could Mom have more than one boyfriend before Dad?”

“Are you betrayed for Dad, or for yourself?”

He ignored her wise observations, astute though they were, and returned to the point. “Our lives could have been completely different.”

“Yes, I could have been born first.” Their coffees arrived then, and Hikari accepted her freshly heated raspberry scone with extra pleasure, taking a tiny bite before continuing, “Why’re you so interested in these what-ifs, anyway?”

Taichi shrugged, picking up his coffee cup. “It just had me thinking, that’s all.”

Hikari studied him over the top of her scone, chewing thoughtfully. “About a girl?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

But he had never been good at lying, and even worse yet when it came to lying to Hikari.

She smirked, lips pursed. “Taichi, just talk to her,” and she stood, grabbing her cup to carry back to the counter for more sugar and a touch of milk. 

He stared after her, still holding his coffee raised to his mouth. His lips pressed into a thin, determined line, and he set the cup down with finality, leaning to the side so that he could fish his phone from his jeans pocket. Unlocking the screen, he scrolled into his recent messages, selecting one near the top, and drafted an overdue reply as carefully as he could. 

But before he could hit the send button, the phone rang. 

He answered after the fourth ring, startled by the timing. “Hey.”

“Guess what I’m doing right now.”

“Talking on the phone?”

Mimi ignored his response. “I was just going about my day, getting some errands done, and I stopped into this electronics store—you know, to look at new toasters after you and Daisuke destroyed mine, thanks very much for that, by the way—and  _ do you know who was there _ ?”

“A toaster salesman?” he said, exasperated.

“That lead singer from that metal band we went to go see last fall! And he remembered you!” She screeched with laughter and he had to pull the phone back from his ear a little, stunned by her hysterically delighted response as much as by the strange coincidence she was retelling. 

“Seriously?” he said, shocked.

“So I got to talking and explained everything, and he turned out to be really nice and gave me a signed album for Daisuke and some tickets to his next show. He said he’s willing to give you a second a chance.”

His shock turned into an inexplicable chill running under his skin. “…Seriously?”

She blabbered on excitably, oblivious to the dread in his voice. “We  _ have _ to go. What are you doing now? It’s at eight but we’ve got to pick up Daisuke first. Should we get dinner, too?”

His chest was seized by a strange weight, and he pulled on the loose thread at the hem of his shirt again. “Actually, I’m busy tonight.”

“Oh,” then she recovered quickly, “of course! It’s late notice. I’ll ask Micha—,”

“But I mean,” and he clapped his hand over his face, swallowing the lump in his throat, “maybe I could come by later.”

“Taichi,” she interrupted in a flat tone, “the whole point of this is so you don’t keep getting blacklisted by every live band venue in town. I don’t think showing up late in the middle of the show is going to help with that.”

“Right,” he said after a moment in which no excuse could manifest itself in his mind, imagination failing when faced with reality. 

“But I’ll work on getting tickets to the next one,” she promised cheerfully. “I think if I play my cards right, I could get more passes. Does Catherine like metal music?”

He pressed his hand harder over his closed eyes. “You know, I don’t think it’s ever come up.”

“Well, ask her, and let me know.” There was shuffling sounds on the other end of the line, and then her voice returned with loud exuberance. “Oh, how’s your dad? Has he been eating the broth?”

He smirk into his palm, “How exactly do you eat broth?”

“He doesn’t like it?” she asked, sounding crestfallen. 

Taichi corrected his joke hastily. “No, it’s just—I mean, yes. It’s fine, Mimi. Thanks for making it.”

“I have some other things I made, too. I’ll bring them by later this week, just tell me when’s best.”

His smirk turned to a smile, a warm blush on his cheeks. “Thanks. I will.”

“Oh, that’s Miyako calling—I have to go. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah, sure, see you—,” but the line had already disconnected.

He sat back, lowering the phone to the table and staring at it. 

“Was that her?” asked Hikari, returning to the table in time to witness the abrupt goodbye exchange. 

But Taichi shook his head. “No, it was Mimi. She wanted to go to some metal concert.”

Hikari stared back blankly. “Metal?”

He rolled his eyes, “Some band Daisuke used to be really into a while back. Mimi hated them as much as I did, but you know how she’s been these past few weeks.” He pulled the phone back to him, “She hates being alone. She’s been keeping herself busy all the time so she won’t have to be still and think and remember.”

Hikari turned her head to the side, cheek resting in her palm. “Sounds familiar.”

He stuck out the tip of his tongue. “Don’t start.”

“I told you,” she repeated, picking up her scone for another bite, “Just talk to her.”

Taichi gave a start, toggling the screen on his phone back on. “I was about to before Mimi called—,”

“Don’t be so dense,” said Hikari with a small smirk. “You know I was talking about Mimi.”

He froze, mouth open. “What?”

But she did not elaborate, sipping her coffee and avoiding his exacting gaze. 

“Okay, seriously this time, don’t start,” he said firmly. 

So she didn’t, but she also knew she did not have to, and so did he.

He turned his phone off again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to make things more complicated.”

Hikari sighed. “They already are.”

She returned to her scone and coffee, and he excused himself to the restroom to give him a moment of not being so easily figured out by the wiser Yagami offspring. Ducking into the corridor where the toilets were placed, he leaned against the wall and unlocked the screen of his phone, opening his text messages for the last time. He pressed send after a hesitance, then opened a new message. 

**_sry about 2nite. have fun_ **

Her reply came almost immediately, startling him. 

**_I invented fun._ **

**_ill believe when i see_ **

**_Not sure you’re ready._ **

He hesitated, typing even slower than usual.  **_maybe i am_ **

**_Haha! Okay, control yourself. I’ll be out of town next weekend, but let’s go out for Daisuke’s birthday after. That should be enough time to prepare yourself for fun._ **

He selected the emoticon of a thumbs-up sign, hitting the send button quickly. He started to put the mobile away, when she replied again. 

**_Invite C!_ **

He stared at the message, chewing on his lip, then resent the thumbs-up icon, guiltily resisting the desire to check the messages again. But it felt like another line from a script that wasn’t his, a role not written for him. 

And lately he was starting to wonder if maybe the only story he wanted to be was hers.


	15. Don’t be sad and don’t explain

 

“He doesn’t like me.”

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“You know it is.”

“What’s not to like about you?”

“Many things. A plethora. A veritable bounty of—,”

“Michael.”

“I just mean that I see no reason of going to this party when he doesn’t want me there.”

“I want you there, and by virtue of wanting me there, he wants you there as well.”

“…That makes absolutely no sense.”

“When have I not made sense?”

“Do you mean today, or in the past hour?”

Mimi lowered the mascara tube to her lap, casting her childhood friend a steady, exacting look. His smile was thin in response, amused by her exasperation as much as he was being the cause of it, but he did not continue the teasing. 

Instead, he returned to his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging over the length of her closet door, adjusting his tie. “I’ll take you, stay for ten minutes—do you hear me, Mimi? Ten minutes, that’s  _ all _ —and then I’m taking the nine o’clock train home.”

Her annoyance shifted to dismay. “You can’t go so soon!”

But he refused to budge, being the only one of her friends who had somehow managed to succeed in keeping the wall of defense against her whining firmly positioned no matter how often her tantrums railed against it (even Daisuke would break if she complained long enough, eventually anyway). It was likely the reason why their friendship had lasted as long as it had unscathed, and why her parents had a tendency to remark after his well-being every time she spoke to them. A part of Mimi suspected that her parents still hoped that by talking about Michael enough times, they could somehow magic the two of them together, a union that by all accounts seemed logical given their similar upbringing. But Michael’s idea of ambitious goal-setting put even the A-est of Type-A’s to humbling shame, and Mimi was admittedly too flighty to fill in the supporting secondary role to either’s satisfaction. 

Instead, Michael reminded her in a tone of voice that had no interest in being combative, but remained firm nonetheless, “We’ve both got lives to get back to, as fun as our reunion has been. Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

She wasn’t listening, still panicked at the idea of his leaving. She offered hopefully, “Maybe I could visit again, like last weekend.”

He pulled on the knot, crafting the intricate wrinkles and lines into the perfect triangle. “It’s going to be a busy week.”

“Then next month.”

“It’s going to be a busy month.”

Michael gestured towards his finished ensemble, seeking approval, but Mimi was not interested. “You don’t want me to come.”

“That is not true,” he said, easily brushing off her pouty exaggeration. “I like when you come visit, and I like when I visit you.” And here he paused, levelling her a serious look. “But, Mimi, I’m your friend. I’m not your escape.”

She capped the mascara tube and returned it to her purse. “I know.”

He smiled, approaching her to place a gentle kiss on the top of her head. “You ready to go?” he asked, taking her silence as the apology it was for the way she’d been hiding behind him for so long. She was grateful he did not press her into speaking more about it, something he’d never made her do before she was ready. She nodded instead, cheer returning brightly to her heart-shaped face, and the conversation shifted to more lighthearted matters as they made their way to the party. 

Daisuke’s apartment was not meant to hold ten people, let alone the forty-ish who actually showed up. This proved beneficial for the both of them, as Michael was relieved to note he could have a drink before meeting the host, who he was convinced did not like him for some unknown reason, and as Mimi was happy to have a moment to gauge the situation. 

She knew he was here, and, like in every situation where they had to encounter each other in small spaces, she was nervous. So she gripped Michael’s hand tighter, coaxing him through the crowd and towards the drinks table by the door, lifting two light beers from a half-melted tub of ice. Michael used his keys to remove the caps and they shared a toast, though Mimi refused to let him let her go until several more sips. 

“Do you know anyone else here?” he asked her, leaning forward so he wouldn’t have to shout over the chatter and music. 

“Daisuke invites anyone he sees to his parties,” replied Mimi, rolling her eyes. “Last year, I am pretty sure the mail carrier came by, bringing a very nice carrot cake.”

Michael chuckled, but she quickly waved away his amusement. 

“It’s not funny. It just means a completely disorganized party. Nothing every goes right, everything always ends in disaster….”

“That sounds like a success in Daisuke’s book,” said Michael after another sip.

Mimi didn’t answer, recognizing the face approaching them now. She took a large gulp of her beer, wiping the back of her mouth, and beamed the largest smile she could find on such short notice.

“Hi, Catherine!” she said, voice cracking a little, which Michael noticed with a furrowed brow.

“Have you seen Taichi?” Catherine asked after hugging her in greeting, peering about the room. “You think it wouldn’t be easy losing sight of someone in a place as tiny as this, and yet….” She trailed off with a shake of her head, ringlets of curls bouncing over thin shoulders. 

“No,” said Mimi, rushed. “I haven’t.”

“We only just got here,” explained Michael.

“Then, welcome,” smiled Catherine cheerfully. She shook his hand in greeting, then pointed at the large open window at the other end of the packed apartment. “They’re outside, if you’re looking for Daisuke and his friends. On the fire escape.”

“Isn’t that illegal—?” Michael started to wonder, cutting himself off with a gasp when Mimi grabbed his collar and yanked him towards her. 

“Great, we’ll see you later,” she called after the blonde woman, walking quickly.

“Mimi, slow down!” Michael yelled, struggling to keep up with her. She only removed her hand when they had immersed themselves in the dancing, jostling, party-going horde, relaxing once out of Catherine’s sight. She drank the rest of her beer quickly, once again alarming her childhood best friend. “Maybe you should slow down in other ways, too,” he remarked. 

She cuffed the side of his head and stopped at the kitchenette to retrieve a few more bottles of beer, handing them to Michael to carry, before they both poked their heads out of the window, looking for Daisuke. He waved at them, trying to stand, swaying visibly. Allowing Takeru to yank him back down onto the thin stairwell of the fire escape, he yelled back in a hoarse voice, “You’re both late! What took so long?”

“You can’t be late to a party, Daisuke,” replied Mimi matter-of-factly, taking Koushiro’s outstretched hand as she carefully stepped onto the makeshift balcony. 

“What are you all doing out here anyway?” asked Michael, curious. He declined Takeru’s attempt at waving him to join them, remaining seated on the windowsill in the relative safety (and warmth) of the indoors. 

“Having a little pow-wow,” admitted Koushiro, and Daisuke’s face seemed to crumble.

Mimi looked alarmed. “Dais, what’s wrong? You can’t be sad on your birthday!”

But he just shook his head, burying his face in his hands. “I invited her and she didn’t come.”

“The party’s not over yet, Daisuke,” pointed Takeru. “She could still come.”

“Yeah, maybe,” mumbled the miserable host. 

Mimi crawled closer to him, slipping her arms around his neck. “I’m here. Can that be enough for now?”

With a sloppy grin, Daisuke opened his arms to envelope her in a bear hug, pulling her into his lap. “It’s always enough. We can be miserable together.”

“As usual,” she said, swallowing the wince, knowing he was too drunk to be mindful of his blunt speech. But it still felt nice to have him close, and she snuggled into his hug, face pressed into his neck, relaxing for the first real time that night.

“So this is where you all are,” said a familiar voice, and she squeezed her eyes closed tighter, turning her face into Daisuke’s chest and pretending to go very still, listening.

“You guys know this is illegal, don’t you?” said Yamato’s voice.

“Jeez, Taichi, why’d you have to bring the wet blanket with you?” complained Takeru.

“He’s also brought me, remember.”

Takeru’s voice magically brightened. “Catherine, you are a veritable light in the bleak darkness of all our futures. I hope you never let an hour go by without making Taichi tell you that.”

“And in case I forget, you can just speed-dial Takeru for your daily dose of verbal bullshit.”

A round of laughter interrupted Takeru’s retort, and Mimi could feel Daisuke’s chest shake deeply as he chuckled along. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Yamato.”

Daisuke shifted a little, but Mimi kept her face hidden into his chest, breathing hard. “Sorry, bad host. Michael, this everyone. Everyone, Michael. Mimi and Michael go way back, don’t you, Mimi?” 

He wiggled her then, and she finally emerged, cheeks flushed. Avoiding the open windowsill, she instead tossed her hair back resolutely and held out her hand to Michael, pointing to one of the bottles of beers she had left with him before climbing out onto the fire escape. 

He handed it to her, rolling his eyes, “Back far enough to know when she’s not in the mood to talk about herself.”

“Utter rarity,” agreed Daisuke, winking at her, but Mimi still said nothing, focusing on her drink. She did slip out of Daisuke’s arms, however, allowing him to accept a drink of his own that Michael gave him. Scooting into the space next to Takeru, she kept her face bent down, knees pulled to her chin, drink cradled in her hands in her lap.

“And even rarer when she’s not in the mood to joke about it either,” observed Michael, studying her through a masked smile. 

Mimi refused to meet his gaze, knowing he’d be able to read through it, but by that point, the conversation had changed. Daisuke drew attention back to himself after demanding to know what presents the newly arrived Yamato had brought, dissolving into childish hysterics when the blond delivered his gift in a deadpan (“My respect.”) tone amidst another round of laughter from the group. 

Even Mimi cracked a small smile then, sipping her beer carefully, glancing up to see dark brown eyes watching her, too. Taichi immediately looked away, raising his own beer to his lips to hide the brief coloring of his cheeks. 

Heart fluttering, she drank heavily again, chewing on her bottom lip, while Takeru elbowed her. “You all right?”

“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “We weren’t that late, were we?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “All you missed was Daisuke moping. He’s cheered up a bit though,” and he gestured to the drink in Daisuke’s hand to indicate the cause of his mood change.

Mimi giggled. “We’re both pretty terrible about our coping mechanisms.”

Takeru eyed the way she gulped through another bottle. “I’m starting to tell. You sure you don’t want to slow down a little?”

“What for?” she asked. “I have to catch up with you all if I’ve just got here.”

Takeru didn’t respond, eyebrow raised in a smirk. 

Mimi raised her nose in the air and started to make a smug retort about how she was an adult and knew how to handle herself—until she finally caught what the others were talking about and her heart stopped.

“—he said not to get too excited, though,” Yamato was saying, handing Daisuke a rectangular package. “And that if you don’t like it, he’s included the gift receipt if you want a different color.”

“Oh, that’s just Jou being Jou,” said Daisuke dismissively, eagerly snatching up the gift and tearing through the wrapping paper. “He’s given me gift receipts on things I specifically asked him to get me, things that weren’t even presents.”

Catherine was leaning forward, curious. “What is it?”

“Oh, wow,” said Koushiro, impressed, as Daisuke lifted the object from the paper.

It was a manual, hand-crank pasta roller, with a wooden handle and a bright, firehouse red metal stand, crafted from crisp steel lines and exchangeable attachments for producing different kinds of noodles. Impressed murmurs sounded throughout the collected group as Daisuke held up the box in awe, mouth agape, and Mimi felt like the world had gotten dark, hearing their excited conversation through a thick, confusing fog.

“I can’t believe he remembered me talking about wanting this,” mumbled Daisuke, eyes watery (though this was likely an effect of the liquor he’d been consuming all evening). 

“He’s a good friend,” said Yamato with a smile.

“You’ll have to make him something now,” observed Catherine.

And Takeru interjected, “Or all of us something. That would be the real honor.”

Mimi stood up suddenly, stepping forward. She moved so quickly she stumbled, tripping into the group assembled at the window. A hand darted out to steady her, grasping her wrist, and when she looked up, it was dark brown eyes swimming in front of her, full of unmasked concern, like he understood, like he knew what this felt like. 

She flinched, yanking away. “I just need to use the restroom,” she said, mumbling.

Pushing through the crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces, she sequestered herself at last inside Daisuke’s tiny bathroom, standing for a moment in front of the sink. Taking a deep breath, she climbed into the tub and sank to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, and pulled the curtain shut, rocking back and forth until her heartbeat could return to its normal pace.

She needed to be better than this.

She couldn’t do this here.

She shouldn’t be this selfish.

The door opened, and she peeked out of an eye, squinting up at the shadowy figure that stood on the other side of the curtain. The figure took a seat on the covered toilet, elbows on his knees. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“No,” whispered Mimi.

“Do you want me to stay this weekend?”

She hesitated, but again declined. “No.”

“You know that I will, if you want me to.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath, steadying her shaking voice. “But you’re right, Michael. You’re not an escape. I have to be here and I have to get used to this.” 

He pulled the curtain back, smiling down at her gently. “Yeah, but you don’t have to do it by yourself.” His expression was soft. “I’m sorry for how I said that. I don’t want you to think you can’t come to me, or that I’ll never want you to stop.”

“I didn’t think that’s what you meant,” she promised, returning the small smile. “Besides, sometimes you need that one person to be the hard line kind of friend.”

He held out his hand to her, and she took it, standing. Helping her out of the tub, he pulled her into a tight embrace. “I’m going to try to catch the next train, but I want you to call me if anything happens, okay? Don’t just force yourself to go through the motions because you think you have to. You should only cross each next step when you’re ready, not because you know you should. Okay?”

Mimi nodded, fingers curled around the hem of his jacket tightly. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Yes. They’re not all bad, you know, Daisuke’s friends.”

Michael rolled his eyes, “They’re your friends, too. And I kind of like them. You’ll have to invite them over the next time I’m in town. Especially that one with the hair, Taichi? He’s hilarious.”

Mimi gave a start, frowning. “He barely talked to you—,”

“Ah,” said Michael, smirking, “I thought I saw you looking at him.”

Her face burned scarlet, and she smacked a fist into his shoulder. “Oh, just leave already.”

He laughed, hugging her once more, and they left the restroom (to the catcalls of a few partygoers lingering nearby) hand-in-hand. Michael said his farewells to Daisuke, who nodded distractedly, and then waved to the rest as Mimi saw him out. When she returned, pausing to open another bottle of beer, it was only Yamato, Catherine, Taichi, and Koushiro sitting on the fire escape, seeming to delight in the ability to have a respite from the crowded, increasingly warming, cramped interior. Koushiro rose to help Mimi out onto the balcony again, for she was feeling lightheaded and tipsy by then, pleasantly so, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek for giving her his seat on the stairwell. 

They had been in the middle of a conversation when she appeared, it seemed, hushing immediately after her return. Mimi, avoiding their gazes, or perhaps only one in particular, decided to laugh it off. “You guys don’t have to censor yourselves around me. The first time was unexpected, but I can handle talking about him.”

“We weren’t discussing anything,” protested Koushiro at once, his ears red. 

“Nothing at all?” asked Mimi, eyebrow arched as she took another sip.

“Just the normal things,” said Taichi casually. “You know, issues in foreign policy, cures for root rot, why the sky’s blue….”

Catherine covered his mouth with a hand, forcing an end to his stream of nonsense, and grinned at Mimi. “I heard you were out of town last week. Did you have a nice vacation?”

“Oh, it wasn’t a vacation,” said Mimi, waving a hand. “It was my parents trying to decide what I should do with my life next.”

“That doesn’t like a vacation to you?” muttered Yamato, and Mimi laughed.

“Do they have lots of ideas for you?” asked Koushiro.

“Now they do,” said Mimi. “Before it was, you know, get married or something.” She took another large gulp, feeling her face warm. “So they called some kind of emergency session to see what happens next if I never do.”

Catherine’s eyebrows raised, pretty blue eyes wide in surprise. “They don’t think it’s premature to be worried about that?”

Mimi swayed a little when she leaned forward and shook a finger at her. “You’re lucky you don’t have my parents.”

“Still, they can definitely relax,” said Yamato. “Parents are going to think whatever they want, but don’t let their worries get to you. You’ll be all right.”

“You think so?” mused Mimi, slumping back against the stairwell.

“Sure, you will. I mean,” and he stammered, “just look at you.”

Taichi smirked, “Well, I never thought I’d see the day when Ishida could so eloquently speak of a woman’s attractiveness.”

Mimi grinned slyly. “You said I was attractive the other day.”

And he immediately started to deny it, face warming. “That is false.”

“Nuh-uh. I remember. You were comparing me to a dead antelope, and you said—,”

He interrupted in a huff, “Right, an antelope, I said antelopes are attractive. That was the real context. Get your facts straight.”

Yamato was staring between them, his normally guarded expression slipping into genuine bewilderment. “What kinds of conversations do you two have?”

“Oh, that’s not even the strangest of them,” assured Koushiro dryly, shaking his head. 

Mimi grinned over her glass, winking, and Taichi rolled his eyes, rubbing his face to hide the flustering blush. As the others laughed, Catherine slipped her hand over Taichi’s, who squeezed back, distracted, and Mimi returned to her drink, blinking quickly. 

“That’s it!” shouted Daisuke suddenly from inside the apartment, and they all peered through the window.

“Oh, fuck,” hissed Taichi, standing up to crawl back through the window. 

Curious, the others followed, faces blank when they reemerged inside the flat and could fully receive the sight before them. Daisuke was standing on top of his coffee table, elbows at an angle and hands on his hips, poised in a highly determined position that immediately had Taichi, Yamato, and Koushiro on alert. They glanced at each other while Daisuke went on, boasting loudly, “I’m going to win her back.”

“And the night just gets better,” said Koushiro, while Yamato winced. 

Takeru, however, was clapping along enthusiastically, standing behind Daisuke on the floor and beaming like a proud father. “That’s right, Daisuke! Go tell her how you feel!”

The crowd, taking Takeru’s very obvious cues, began cheering along, making their host grin wider in glee at the support. Among more shouts and whistles, he called, “Let it be known that, I, Motomiya Daisuke, am not the other guy! I am  _ the _ guy!”

Taichi set his drink down on the table, approaching his friend with caution. “Daisuke, think about this before—,”

“I have thought about it!” he barked. “And I’m done thinking! When has thinking every worked out for me?”

“Well, to answer that, we first would need an example of you thinking,” snapped Yamato, joining his best friend in trying to coax Daisuke down from the table. 

He roared with fake laughter, easily sidestepping out of each of their attempts to snag him down, which only served to feed the crowd’s delight. 

“Silence, unbeliever!” he declared, shaking a foot at Yamato’s face (an extremely dangerous move, and one that had Koushiro yanking Yamato back to keep him from retaliating). “This is a mission for destiny, for honor, and for love! Your blasphemous doubt has no place here!” And then he puffed up his chest once more, jumping down from the table. “Who’s with me?”

The crowd burst into fresh cheers, Catherine clapped hand over her giggling mouth, while Takeru in particular never looked more ecstatic in his life. Taichi caught his arm just as the young blond tried to slip by with the rest, and Takeru lowered his voice, “Who wouldn’t want to see this train wreck in action?”

Yamato grabbed the back of Takeru’s collar. “You instigated this, didn’t you?”

“Oh, come on,” protested his brother. “He’ll sober up on the trek over, and by that time, I’ll have gotten a free cab ride home. We’re all winners!”

“Maybe we should go with them,” suggested Catherine, “just in case?”

Koushiro nodded, warily eyeing Daisuke struggling to put on his shoes as a host of his friends raucously jostled back and forth in support of what was surely an experiment in disaster. 

“Where are we going?” chirped Mimi, squeezing in the middle of the group of friends. 

“To help Daisuke reclaim the heart of his betrothed,” said Takeru, “or die trying.”

Mimi immediately cooed, face brightening, “Ooh, a romantic fantasy!”

“Fantasy is one word for it,” remarked Yamato darkly, disgruntled. But the way he eyed Daisuke’s fumbling attempts to walk drunkenly out the door softened his annoyance, and he nodded in agreement with Koushiro. “We can’t let him go through with this.”

“We’ll go to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand,” agreed Koushiro.

Mimi was glancing between them, becoming more and more excited about the notion of travelling anywhere at all. “I want to come, too!”

Takeru grinned, clasping her hand, “’Course, you’re coming. Daisuke’ll need all the support he can when Miy—,”

And Taichi cut him off, snaking a hand around Mimi’s waist and pulling her back from the blond at once. “On second thought, I think Daisuke’s going to need some people here to hold down the fort.”

Her fingers gripped his, clutching his arm tightly, “But I want to see—,”

“Don’t you think he needs to have this place cleaned up for her when he brings her back?” pointed out Taichi, avoiding the others’ puzzled gazes. “Maybe have something to eat ready for them?”

He’d discovered her weakness, and her eyes shone. “Yes! We should make something for them!”

Taichi was already carrying her to the kitchenette. “Absolutely.” He deposited her in front of the fridge, letting her clumsily sort around inside, and turned back to the others. “You three go, I’ll stay and make sure everyone else clears out. Give me a call when you manage to talk Daisuke back home, will you?” he asked of Koushiro.

The redhead promised he would, then added, “Then again, if it all does work out—,”

“It won’t,” muttered Yamato.

“—we’ll bring back some champagne.”

“And toast what has got to be the stupidest thing he’s ever done,” said Takeru with uncontained glee. 

Yamato shoved him forward, marching him along after the crowd that had finally managed to squeeze out the door. “Don’t think you’re not getting out of this that easily. If we have to drag him back here, you’re coming, too. This is not a free ride home.”

His brother began to whine, pouting, “Aw, Yamato—,”

Taichi waved the trio off, shaking his head at what the evening was turning into, and with a sigh pulled out his phone to call for a taxi. Catherine cocked her head to the side, arms crossed with a small smile. “Do I get to stay, too, or is that taxi for me?”

He held out his hand to her and she took it, relieved. “I’m calling a cab for Mimi.”

“She should have gone with the others, don’t you think? She wanted to.”

But he shook his head, distracted, scrolling through his contacts list for the local cab company name. “She doesn’t know who it is, and this is not how she should find out, trust me. It’s complicated. Being drunk and surprised is not a good combination, and I’d rather them avoid it.”

Catherine was studying him carefully, her blue eyes tracing every expression he made. “I rather like how much you care about your friends.”

He paused, hearing at last the affection in her voice and grinning. “Oh, you do?”

“Very much,” she said, tilting her chin up for a kiss. 

There was a crash as a plate shattered to the floor in the nearby kitchenette, alarming a few of the party attendees who has stayed behind. 

Taichi separated from Catherine, sighing. “Everything okay, Mimi?” he called.

A long pause and then a rapid, series of breaking dishes answered him, filling the studio apartment with a cacophony of tableware disasters, one after another. Another long pause followed the last broken item, and Taichi shook his head, tapping his phone to his cheek with resignation. “Another reason not to let her join the drunk-train to terrible-decisions-town,” he said, and Catherine tried to smile. “I’m sorry about all this. I promise this is not how I wanted our night to turn out.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, kissing his cheek. “You get this place ready for Daisuke’s humiliated return, I’ll get your place ready for your triumphant one. Sound fair?”

He cupped her chin, pulling her face swiftly towards him. “More than fair.”

She grinned into his mouth, returning the kiss softly, before peeping back into the kitchenette to wave farewell to Mimi. The young woman was kneeling over the mess of broken dishes and glasses on the floor, looking guilt-stricken and on the verge of tears. When she attempted to wave back to Catherine while crawling forward into the mess to reach out a hand to her, she was immediately ushered back by the both of them. Catherine assured her a handshake was not necessary while Taichi tried to get her away from the broken shards, both grabbing one of Mimi’s hands each and leading her carefully around the mess without causing any more harm. 

Catherine guided her to the couch, patting her shoulder affectionately, then reminded Taichi to bring her some water. They shared a brief kiss and Taichi saw her to the door, turning back to the rest of the partygoers. There were a handful of people left in the studio by then, despite the fact that the birthday boy himself had long since vacated. Taichi briefly wondered if he should be annoyed at having to babysit his friend’s apartment for him like this, and then began devising plans for booting the last of the group out the door, when he realized in alarm that the couch was empty and Mimi was nowhere to be seen.

Panicked, he started for the kitchenette, kicking the broken dishes and cups into a small pile away from the entrance to minimize the danger, reemerging back into the main area of the studio and puzzling over how someone could even disappear in a space this tiny. 

Then at last he saw her, on the floor again, crawling about the side of the far wall towards the windowsill. At one point she backed unknowingly into a drunk man with unkempt black hair and a wiry scowl, who seemingly thought he had been attacked by a rodent of some kind and proceeded to kick the offending animal away, continuing to chat with the other man in front of him. His heel was just about to crash into Mimi’s skull when Taichi’s hand stopped it, shoving his leg back and sending the man sprawling to his knees. 

“What the hell, man?” he cried, shocked, words slurred.

“Just go home,” Taichi told him shortly, irritable. “And that goes for everybody—party’s over! Get out!”

A collective protest rumbled through the dispersing crowd, all of which Taichi ignored as he ushered them one by one from the apartment. After the last bumbling attendee had finally wandered from the flat, he shut the door in relief and turned back to the one person who had stayed behind.  

Shaking his head, he picked up the last bottle of water from the drinks table and strode back to the wall where she was still crawling, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired and still fixated on her journey. “And where exactly are you going?”

“I’m looking.”

He could barely hear her soft mumblings, so he dropped to a crouch, leaning into her. “For what?”

“The door.”

Taichi stared. “To…what? Wonderland?”

She glared in disgust. “That’s not a real place.”

“Try telling that to a nine-year-old Hikari—,”

And Mimi shrieked, hand smacking into the air for emphasis, “She’s a grown woman! You should let her be a grown woman! Stop being overprotective!”

“Whoa, hold on,” interrupted an alarmed Taichi, hands up in his own defense. She had sat up, chest heaving from the sudden outburst. “I appreciate you defending my sister’s right to maturity, but do you think we could have this roast of me not on the floor?”

She sat up straight. “We’re not on the floor.”

“Okay,” he said with a sigh, rising slowly in defeat. He grasped her by the shoulders, lifting her easily. “Let’s go sit on the couch, shall we? Drink some water?”

But Mimi immediately protested, dissolving into a crisis of anxiety and worry. Wringing her hands, she looked around the party with wounded concern. “But I can’t sit on the couch. I tried to,” she insisted, swiveling back towards him and gesturing earnestly, “I tried—but you were—and with—and I can’t sit there and watch you—,”

“It’s okay,” he said, trying to sooth her stress. “The couch is free, the apartment is free, you can sit wherever you like and watch whatever you like, I promise.”

She grew still, hands frozen against her chest. “Catherine’s gone?” she asked, looking at him in a daze.

“Yeah.” He reminded gently, as though speaking to an unusually slow child, “They’ve all left.”

She was squinting at him, her face scrunched up like a fat, pink balloon, and he was unprepared for how difficult it was not to poke at a puffy cheek, to tweak at a pert nose, to tug at a loose strand of hair—to just  _ touch _ her. 

She frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he smiled, bemused. “Are you?”

She did not explain the sudden concern, nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll both be okay.”

His expression remained bewildered, unable to keep up with her train of thought, assuming she had one to begin with. He didn’t have time to consider it, because now she had slid her hands around his forearm, tugging him forward. “Sit with me?”

She didn’t wait for a response, yanking him towards the open window. He stumbled after her, still holding onto the water bottle, but moving quickly when she nearly tripped through the open space and face-planted onto the fire escape. He caught her by the waist as she tumbled down, guiding her through the opening and onto the ramp outside. 

“I think you’re too drunk to be out here,” laughed Taichi with a hint of real worry, righting her so she could lean safely against the wall of the building as he climbed out after her.

She pushed him back, fussily smacking away his hands. She spoke slowly, each word deliberate and a struggle. “Your face is drunk.”

His eyebrow twitched at the comment, but he chose not to draw attention to it, letting her sink back against the wall with her eyes closed, relishing in the crisp night air. He scooted into the narrow space beside her, and she slid down until her cheek could rest on his elbow. He wiggled his arm a little, and her head bounced comically. 

Suppressing the urge to laugh, he tried to keep his tone even, holding the bottle out to her. “Come on, sit up. Drink some water.”

“Your face…drinks water,” she mumbled.

“That’s not entirely untrue,” he allowed. He slipped his arm around her back, hoisting her up properly this time. Even after he succeeded in getting her to sit, she continued murmuring pitifully in weak protest, leaning back so his arm was pinned around her waist. 

The back of her head hit the wall and she groaned. “I made everyone uncomfortable when I left you all here after he opened his present, didn’t I?”

“Don’t go taking all the credit,” said Taichi, unscrewing the cap of the water bottle with his free hand. “Koushiro told some terrifically unfunny jokes that deserve some of the blame, too. Why else do you think Daisuke and Takeru went back inside?”

She pushed the water bottle away when he offered it, making a face so childish that he chuckled and set the drink down on the floor rather than try again. Her chin drooped to the side and she peered up at him with round, watery eyes, lip quivering. “Do you think anyone noticed me leave?”

“Nah,” he lied, extracting his arm from behind her at last and clasping them between his knees for warmth. “It’s remarkable how much people don’t pay attention to things like that.”

Her nose wrinkled slightly as she sniffled. “You noticed.”

“Yeah, well,” but he couldn’t finish the thought, smirk plastered hastily. 

So Mimi finished it for him, cuddling her chin into the crook of his arm, gaze unwavering. “Because you’re always looking at me.” 

He fell silent.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, mouth lingering against his cheek. Her hand searched its way to his, fingertips grazing his knee in a way that made him suck in his breath. “I look at you, too.”

The world shrank, and grew, and came to life.   
  



	16. This is where we start again

 

In hindsight, he was more than a little guilty about his immediate reaction. 

To be fair, he doubted many others would not share the same instinctual response, given all the immediate signs: the spatters of blood, the fuming rage, the disoriented mess. For as long as he’d suspected the real status of their relationship—one that hadn’t been “just friends” for almost as long as he’d known them, even if they and the one mutual friend they held in common had yet to admit or see it—he had also privately entertained the event of a psychotic break as more or less assured, and finally, here it was. 

Miyako seemed to anticipate the horrorstruck pause in his steps when he saw her, and as such, she greeted him with a flat and unemotional voice. “I didn’t do it.”

Lying back on the bed, an unusually subdued Daisuke piped up, “She didn’t,” but the scattered look in his vacant eyes did not do much to support his agreement with her.

So Miyako sighed in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. “I brought him here. Isn’t that enough?”

“She did,” muttered a barely coherent Daisuke.

The sound of his shaken voice at last kicked Jou into professional mode, and he walked towards the bed to peer over the shoulder of his colleague. The experienced doctor finished the last of the sutures on his patient’s cheek, just under his right eye, snipping the thread with surgical scissors. “Ah, Dr. Kido,” said the elderly physician, peeling off his latex gloves with satisfaction. “Your friend should be just fine. A good knocking, a little bruising, a few stitches, but all will be well.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jou, ever polite. He waited for the man to finish delivering the last of his care instructions to a clearly unfocused Daisuke, flashing the doctor a quick smile as he left the room. The nurse appeared almost immediately afterwards, however, and Jou had to bite back his tongue and wait even longer for the woman to finish cleaning Daisuke’s bruising face and instruct him on the discharge procedure. 

After a few minutes of this, Miyako’s arms were pressed so tightly over her chest, her frown so deep in her mouth, that Jou at last intervened and assured the nurse he would be fine escorting Daisuke through the last steps before the hospital could release him, even though his shift was over. She was the same nurse who had told him Daisuke had even been admitted, recognizing the chef’s name on the waiting room chart and finding Jou in the doctors’ break room to tell him about his friend’s admittance. It was with more than the usual amount of alarm and trepidation that Jou had rushed back into the emergency wing to find Daisuke, his apprehension releasing with more than the usual amount of relief when he saw for himself the actual extent of the injury. It was minor, though bloody, and the stitches would help minimize the scarring, something Jou suspected Daisuke would be grateful for once he was sober enough to realize how close his self-described godlike vision of facial perfection had come to being permanently marred. 

Now left alone with his friends, Jou helped Daisuke sit up on the bed, warning him not to poke curiously at the sutures despite how much interest the man evidently had in doing so. Steadying Daisuke’s wavering attempts at sitting upright, Jou turned to Miyako, eyebrows raised for an explanation, and the bespectacled woman only seemed to fluster more deeply under his own gaze, ruffled.

“Okay, so I did do it,” she admitted at last, irritated, “but I didn’t do it on  _ purpose _ .”

Jou knew better than to challenge her. Instead he nodded politely, leading a woozy, mumbling Daisuke through the labyrinth of the hospital. 

All the while, Miyako followed behind and spoke in a rush, frustrated. “He showed up with all his stupid friends and it took forever to get them all to leave and then they were finally gone and my sisters were furious and I had to get away from everything and I opened the door too fast and  _ it’s not my fault he was still there _ .”

“Ah,” said Jou. They stopped at the billing station, waiting in the corridor as Daisuke fumbled his way through offering his information for the administrator behind the desk. He removed his spectacles under the pretense of cleaning them with a handkerchief from his pocket, though he really kept his face bent to hide his smile. “Well, Daisuke never really did get on well with doors. Probably a long time coming, this is.”

She repeated, muttering to herself, “How was I supposed to know he’d stayed behind?” 

“Because that’s what Daisuke does,” Jou pointed out, watching his friend slowly complete the last of the required insurance forms. “In all the years that you’ve known him, has he ever let himself not go through with something he’s decided to do?” 

She grit her teeth. “Don’t make it sound like his stubbornness is an attractive quality.”

He raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide the amused smile anymore. “You said ‘attractive,’ not me.”

Her face glowed a rosy pink, and Jou relaxed his teasing, returning the glasses to his face. 

“He wanted to see you, and he was going to wait there until he did.” He hesitated, voice soft, “A lot of people would give anything for that kind of stubbornness, if you ask me.”

Miyako said nothing, falling into a reflective silence with her face still flushed, and Jou, embarrassed, left the statement alone, grateful she didn’t seem interested in talking about it or what he meant. After Daisuke finally finished with the paperwork, they left the hospital and Miyako strode forward to hail a taxi. It was at this point, standing in the cold late night air, that something like suspicion mixed with exhausted depression rose in the back of Daisuke’s mind and he looked about them in confusion. 

“Where are we?”

“Just left the hospital,” explained Jou. “You lost a fight with a door, but you’ll be fine. We’re taking you home now.”

“So the party’s over?” asked Daisuke after a long silence, blinking slowly.

Jou marveled at how hard Miyako must have swung open her apartment door, or how drunk Daisuke must have been when he’d decided sitting at eye-level with the doorknob was a good idea. He clapped a hand around the younger man’s shoulder comfortingly. “I said home, not back to the party.” 

“They’re still there,” said Daisuke with a yawn.

“I told your idiot friends to go home,” interjected Miyako after finally succeeding into summoning a cab. She opened the door and ushered in the other men, climbing into the front passenger seat with the taxi driver. 

“Not them,” said Daisuke slowly. “Mimi.”

Jou felt his stomach drop. “Mimi and who?”

But Daisuke just shrugged, mumbling into his chest as his head dropped sleepily. “Party people.”

“Great,” complained Miyako, tossing her hair. “We have to do everything for him tonight, don’t we? Take him home, kick out party stragglers….”

“It’s okay,” said Jou quietly. “I’ll take him. If you want to go home, you should. You’ve had a long night, too.”

At the kindness in his voice, Miyako hesitated, chewing her lip. Finally she shook her head with a forced, determined scowl at the rearview mirror. “It’s the least I can do,” she said stiffly, but Jou saw her expression soften more than once in the frequent glances she passed at Daisuke’s dozing form in the mirror, concern Jou knew she wouldn’t let anyone see otherwise. 

This time, however, Jou was too distracted to smile knowingly at her poor attempts at masking her true feelings, the knot in his stomach deepening and twisting with each minute. He did his best to ignore it when they finally reached the apartment building, paying and thanking the driver for his patience after Daisuke dented the side door trying to kick it shut in evident retaliation for being jostled awake and ushered out of the car before he was ready to leave. Miyako helped Jou steer the now grumbling and irritable chef up towards his apartment, holding onto Daisuke as Jou unlocked the door for him. 

He did not realize he was holding his breath until he saw her.

Mimi was curled up on the Daisuke’s couch. All around her were empty bottles and plastic cups and broken dishes and torn decorations strewn about the disheveled apartment. She was tucked underneath one of Daisuke’s ratty winter overcoats, dozing peacefully with her cheek to the back of her clasped hands on the arm of the couch. She was alone, and Jou couldn’t take his eyes off her. 

Daisuke, meanwhile, had no concept of allowing exhausted friends their precious hours of sleep if he was not given any himself. Without warning, he tore from both Jou and Miyako’s hold and launched into a running leap to the couch, throwing himself on top of the unsuspecting Mimi before either of the others could stop him.  She let out a shriek of terror when he landed on her, immediately starting awake, while Miyako slapped a hand over her face and Jou shut the apartment door in alarm, hoping to keep the yells from frightening the neighbors. 

” _ Daisuke _ !” cried Mimi, heart pounding as she scrambled to her feet, shoving him off her. She stood swaying, unsteady and visibly shaken. Her eyes widened when she saw the state of his face, hand flying to her mouth. “Daisuke?”

“I didn’t do it!” Miyako protested before she could stop herself, startling Mimi once more. The latter jumped back again, finally realizing in alarm that there were others in the room. Her wide hazel eyes fell on Miyako first, confused, then seemed to freeze when they found Jou standing behind her. 

He avoided her gaze, watching Daisuke snuggle into the reclaimed spot of his sofa as though nothing at all were wrong with giving Mimi a heart attack to get it. Explaining quickly, he said, “There was a little bit of an accident involving a heavy door handle, but he’s fine. A little out of it, but nothing a night’s rest won’t help.”

Mimi stared at him, then at Miyako, and at last at Daisuke again, her still stunned mind working too slowly to put the pieces together fast enough. “But I thought—Daisuke went to—there was a girl who—and the others went with him—?” She groaned and held her head in shaking hands. “I think I’ve had too much to drink—nothing makes sense….”

“He can explain it all later,” interrupted Miyako hastily, trying to avoid another catastrophe. “But let’s be real, would an explanation really help sort what you already know about Daisuke and the things he does to himself?”

Mimi tilted her head, hesitant, and Miyako took that as agreement, hurriedly moving to avoid staying on the subject too long. 

“I’ll get him some water,” she offered, rushing to the kitchenette and leaving their conversation behind. She stopped at the entrance when she saw the broken dishes littering the floor, exasperated and beside herself, then carefully stepped her way around the tiny space to retrieve the old intact glass she could find, filling it with water from the tap. She paused at the entrance again, listening to the low tones of Jou’s voice and Mimi’s quiet responses echo through the apartment, allowing the cold evening air gently flowing through the window to calm her rapid heart rate and gather her composure. 

“Miyako?”

She opened her eyes, meeting Jou’s bespectacled gaze. 

“Can you stay with Daisuke for a little while?” he asked. “I’ll take Mimi home and check on him when I get back.”

“Oh,” interrupted Mimi, face pink. “But I can—I mean, I—,”

But Jou shook his head. “You’re not feeling well either. You need your own rest, and you don’t need to be here now that Daisuke’s home again. I can take you and be back in no time. It’s not any trouble,” he added quickly when she opened her mouth to protest again. His voice was soft, asking for the only way he knew how to express how he felt, “Please, let me.”

And she looked at him, growing strangely still, breath shallow and light. 

“Okay,” she breathed, and the smile he gave her in response was so pure she could not help but return it sincerely, however small and awkward both gestures were. 

“Keep it down,” groaned Daisuke, squelching the mood irritably. 

Miyako approached him to set the glass of water on the nearby coffee table, restraining herself from flicking him on the forehead for being rude when she caught a guilty glimpse of his stitches again. She crossed her arms over her chest, sighing. “All right, I’ll wait. Don’t be too long,” she added warningly, seeing the both to the door, waving aside Jou’s reassurance and fixing him one of her more lethal, challenging glares in response, daring him to mislead her longer than he promised.  

It was only after they had gone that she let the pretense go.

“Daisuke?” she called after a moment, voice foreign even to herself, heart in her throat. 

“Mm?”

She leaned over the arm of the couch, brushing his bangs aside. “Does it really hurt?” 

“Mm-hm,” he shook his head, eyes closed.

She smiled, lip trembling. “You’re a hopeless idiot, Motomiya.”

“Dun’ care,” he muttered. “Not if I can be your idiot.”

She withdrew her hand, and he opened his eyes. She could think of nothing to say, her tongue thick and heavy in her mouth, chest tight, mind churning as it struggled to make sense of everything that had happened so far. She could remember clearly only two things: that first fleeting sense of unadulterated desire when she’d opened the door to her apartment and seen him standing there surrounded by all his drunk friends, brandishing his cell phone like a sword as he vowed to fight for her—and then the chaos of the second, intense sensation, or loss thereof, when she’d slammed the door open after a furious argument with her (in hindsight reasonably annoyed) sisters and heard his howling cries of pain as the handle bust open his cheek. It was a miracle she hadn’t taken out one of his eyes, the nurse told her in the waiting room, a pronouncement that only served to make Miyako feel worse. Why she felt bad at all, she still wouldn’t admit. Not yet. Not until—

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Daisuke calmly as he sat up, never once taking his eyes from her, “but I’m going to puke all over you if you don’t move, right now.”

And she dove, moving instinctually, and he launched himself towards the bathroom.  

Shaking her head, Miyako arranged two of the couch cushions on the floor for herself to lie on, rubbing her neck tiredly and taking a seat on the floor. And then something gave a creak on the other side of the fire escape, and she fell still, eyes wide, nervously turning her head towards the window. Her face paled when she saw him, ducking quietly inside the warm studio. Fingers tugging at thick brown bangs, he flashed Miyako a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He crept across the length of the apartment and silently to the front door. 

“You should be careful,” he teased in a low voice. “He could have fallen asleep in there.”

Miyako couldn’t respond, remembering the conversation that had filled the apartment only moments before. She blinked quickly, “You were out there the whole time?”

“On a call.” Taichi waved his phone before tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. “I heard—well, I heard you all come in while I was trying to figure out how to—,” and he stopped, shaking his head with a short laugh that sounded too hollow. “Seriously, I think he’s fallen in,” he joked, glancing at the bathroom door again. 

As if on cue, the toilet flushed, and Miyako gave a start, the sudden sound startling her thoughts. Taichi grinned, turning towards the front door, but the smile disappeared in an instant when the handle turned. He ducked at once, sequestering himself against the wall, stepping just far enough not to recreate Daisuke’s tragic mishap with another door earlier that evening. 

Miyako had barely enough time to wonder at this near mirroring of events when her friend stepped into the apartment. Her cheeks were pinched and pink, her eyes wide, and she stood in the entrance way with a hesitance she couldn’t quite place. One hand braced against the door post and the other still clutching the handle, the young woman looked straight ahead at the fire escape window, brow furrowed. 

“Mimi?” asked Miyako carefully, trying to catch her attention and pull it towards her purposely. “You all right?”

“I thought I left something here,” she murmured in response. 

Miyako opened her mouth, hesitant, eyes darting behind her. 

Taichi put a finger to his lips and gave her the most imperceptible shake of his head.  

So she tore her gaze away from him and cleared her dry throat, stammering, “Are—are you sure?”

Mimi didn’t answer, biting her lip and frowning at the open window. 

The bathroom opened, and a yawning Daisuke stumbled out. Grateful to have a distraction, Miyako jumped to her feet and took his arm, pulling him to the couch, where he collapsed onto his side with a loud, exaggerated groan. “Thought Jou was taking you home, Mimi,” he mumbled half into the cushion. 

“He’s downstairs,” she said in a strange voice, as though she weren’t listening to either of them. Miyako scrambled to think of another distraction, but then Mimi suddenly left the doorway, crossing the studio and peering out of the open window. “But I thought…I was sure that—,”

Daisuke opened his eyes, staring over the arm of the couch at the door, confused, “Tai?”

Miyako flinched, stomach turning into knots, and Mimi turned so quickly she lost her footing, falling on her backside onto the ledge of the open fire escape. 

“Oh,” she gasped, staring at the empty front entrance, chest tight. 

Daisuke rubbed his face, burying his fingers in his hair with a groan. “I’m seeing things. I’m going insane.”

Taking immediate advantage of the situation, or perhaps hoping to distract from it altogether, Miyako swallowed the lump in her throat and pulled Daisuke’s hands away from his face. It was a feeble effort to keep his fingers from poking at the stitches, and she rose to her feet to fetch a plaster from the kitchen for a more permanent attempt. “You just need to go to sleep.”

He mumbled incoherently in response, sinking even lower onto the couch. Miyako found the first aid kit in the closest cupboard by the kitchenette’s entrance, selecting the largest plaster and closing the lid. She glanced at Mimi, who remained seated on the windowsill, mouth in a perfect “o” but brow furrowed to a point. 

She rested a hand on Mimi’s shoulder. “Whatever you’re forgetting,” promised Miyako softly, “it’ll come back to you in the morning, if it’s meant to.”

Mimi looked up, and if she seemed to understand the subtext in Miyako’s careful words, she did not indicate it. Instead, her expression shifted to one of gentle gratitude, and she smiled brightly. “You’re right.”

Miyako offered her a hand, and the other woman accepted, standing up once more. She stopped at the couch to pat Daisuke farewell on his shoulder, to which he grunted in a half-snore, exhausted and unfocused. The women giggled, leaving him to his state of half-conscious dreamland, but it was only after Mimi had left that Miyako’s smile faded to confused worry, heart sinking in her chest like lead. 

She closed the door and turned the lights off, carefully making her way back to the couch and settling onto the ground in front, curling over the cushion she had taken for herself. Pulling her glasses from her face, she folded the spectacles and gently placed them by her purse, snuggling into the pillow. From where she lay, she had a clear (albeit blurry to her) view of Daisuke’s dozing form, sprawled on his back—but all she could see, playing over and over in the back of her head, was the way Taichi had held back in silence after Mimi came into the room, how he’d moved so effortlessly, how he’d left so easily, like it cost him nothing at all to separate himself from her.

She blinked quickly, breath hitched with a strange sorrow. 

Without thinking, her fingers darted forth at once for Daisuke’s hand. It hung loosely over the side of couch where he lay, his mouth open wide with rumbling snores, and his head almost coming off the cushions. She could barely make out the details in his face with her poor vision, but she knew where his hand was and she caught it on the first instinctual reach, lacing her fingers through his, clutching him with something not too unlike fear—of what, she didn’t know, but she knew that holding onto him was the only thing that would help.

But then his hand curled around hers when she took his, and in the next moment he had tumbled down off the couch, colliding into her in a crushing embrace, never once waking up and never once letting go, like he’d just been waiting all this time for her to reach out first, like that was all it would ever take for him to find her. 


	17. Come to me, my sweetest friend

“So you’re telling me,” began Takeru slowly, “that it worked?”

The disbelief made his voice unnaturally wheezy, and they both turned to stare through the windows of the small catering shop, standing in silence on the sidewalk outside. Seated in the waiting area at the front of the store was the couple in question, smooched up in one arm chair, alternating between arguing passionately and making out furiously.

Takeru shook his head. “I mean, I guess I _sort_ of believed you when you said it before, but I didn’t _really_ think it had happened exactly right. But now…,” and he trailed off, at a loss for words.

“Nothing makes sense,” muttered Koushiro.

Takeru sighed. “I don’t know what to believe in anymore.”

“Should we go in?” asked the other with a hint of something like fear in his raspy voice.

“You first,” dared Takeru.

He hesitated, “We could leave.”

The younger man gagged a little. “Yeah, that’s probably better, let’s get out of—oh, damn, they saw us.”

Indeed they had, somewhere in the middle of what to a normal pair would have been a regular conversation, coming up for air with pink faces and waving the two of them inside. Koushiro still looked a bit frightened, so Takeru bolstered up his courage and marched on ahead, pushing open the door.

“Well, aren’t you both bright-eyed and disgusting this morning,” he greeted with false cheer.

“Hello to you, too, Takeru,” said Miyako, straightening her shirt and tossing her long hair over her shoulder.

Daisuke was less forgiving, standing up to pull forward another chair for Koushiro and cuffing Takeru slightly on the shoulder when he passed the blond on the way. “I invite you over for lunch and you start by insulting me? Not a wise move, Takaishi.”

Takeru rolled his eyes, unaffected by the thinly veiled threat, knowing his friend was too deliriously blissful, and had been for the past three weeks, to be taken seriously. Instead, he collapsed into the last comfy armchair across from Miyako and yawned loudly. “I can’t be trusted to make any important decisions on an empty stomach. So we’re all here on our work breaks, Miyako included. Now where’s lunch, Motomiya?”

“It’s a bring your own kind of thing we do here,” said Daisuke, returning with a stool for Koushiro, who was already pulling out his small lunch pack.

Takeru looked around, confused. “But this is a catering store. There is actually food everywhere. You’re telling me I can’t eat it?”

“Not unless you pay for it,” snapped Daisuke, mildly amused by the blond’s genuine surprise.

Miyako was more sympathetic, though she had her own biases factor into this decision. She was still at that stage of hoping to get Daisuke’s friends to like her, and Takeru was a relatively new one (but not a difficult one) to win over, so she was usually quick to agree with him on most things to her boyfriend’s chagrin. That and she rather wanted to have Daisuke cook whenever she could get him to do so. It truly was one of his better talents (among other things that she didn’t think Koushiro and Takeru would be too happy witnessing; they’d already grossed out her sisters enough times, though most of these occasions had been Miyako’s way of teasing her more conservative siblings, a goal she was wildly successful in achieving).

So she whined at him now, “Please make something?”

Daisuke hesitated, not particularly strong-willed when it came to saying “no” to her, though this was admittedly more rooted in his still lingering fear of her reaction to being told “no” more than actually disappointing her. That, and Mimi hadn’t been in the best of moods lately, and he didn’t want to test the limits of his other significant female relationship either. It was quite a pickle to be in, and if there was one thing that was absolutely _not_ one of his talents, it was making the right decision under pressure.

“Okay,” he agreed at last, grinning lopsidedly.

Takeru leaped to his feet, immensely pleased by how all these external issues were benefiting him most of all in this moment, and started to follow Daisuke towards one of the stove tops when the swinging door to the bakery kitchen at the rear of the store started to push open, and a familiar voice began talking loudly.

Before either Takeru or Koushiro could react, Daisuke had hurtled past them and threw Miyako clear off the armchair. She tumbled back behind the couch with an audible yelp of startled pain, to which Daisuke hissed loudly, “Shush yourself, woman!” before spinning back around, chest heaving with adrenaline, just as Mimi calmly entered the larger room, oblivious to the chaos that had occurred seconds before. Even the others weren’t sure there had been a scene: it had happened so quickly they were still frozen where they were before, Takeru in mid-walk to the nearest steel table and Koushiro glued on top of the stool in front of the cushions that Miyako was now hiding behind.

“Hey!” squeaked Daisuke to Mimi. “I thought you weren’t going to come in today, that you were going straight to the event instead?”

Mimi waved a distracted hand at him, mind elsewhere. “I was on my way but I think I forgot the invoice. I can’t find it anywhere. I think I need to reprint it.”

“Let me do that for you,” volunteered her sous chef with unusual chivalry, nearly tripping over himself to reach the office computer.

Still Mimi did not seem alerted to any suspicious activity, only then realizing that they had company. She beamed, smiling a little at the pair of them. “Takeru, Koushiro! How are you? It’s been so long.”

“Uh—,” stammered Koushiro, who had never dealt with confusion well.

Fearing that he’d blow the cover, while also incredibly beside himself that neither Daisuke nor Miyako had told Mimi about their relationship after this long, Takeru stepped in to right the situation and smooth out a potential crisis (hoping that doing so would still win him a free lunch). “Yeah, we thought we’d come by here exactly because it’s been too long. Been busy with the holiday rush?”

She shook her head, “You’ve no idea. So glad to be almost done. Today’s the last event, and it’s an office party so it shouldn’t been too long.” She brightened, changing the subject. “But if you’re going to be here for lunch, maybe I’ll stay, too! We haven’t had one of these in a long time,” she added, looking at Koushiro specifically this time, glancing just beyond his shoulder at the door with something like expectation.

The redhead cleared his throat. “Well, now that Taichi’s not going to be coming around anymore, I’ve let it slip. But not anymore. I think we should definitely start these up again. They’re fun,” he added cheerfully for good measure.

Daisuke, meanwhile, was frowning. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult to Taichi for being replaceable or for being replaced by you.”

Takeru threw him a rude hand gesture and the others laughed, but Mimi had fallen silent.

She stared at Koushiro, face blank. “He’s not coming?”

He paused knowingly, recovering from the hesitation before anyone else could hear it, too. Giving her a small smile of reassurance, he inclined his head with a sympathetic leaning, admitting in lieu of an explanation, “I just meant not for a bit. He got a new job after the holiday. He’s been really busy getting used to the workload and everything, you know?”

But she hadn’t known.

Catching her breath quickly, she nodded. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

Koushiro bought it, or appeared to, anyway. “But, hey, he did ask me to give you this next time I came by.” And he produced a thin white letter envelope, which Mimi accepted cautiously. She turned over the envelope a few times, feeling its flatness, before slowly tearing open the seal. It contained only a yellow sticky note attached to a single check. **_Sorry to be so late with this, but did either of us really expect I’d get the last installment in on time?_** A crudely drawn attempt of a circle punctuated with sharp, short lines in what appeared to be the smiley face from a child’s nightmare acted as the signature, scrawled in runny, black ink.

She returned the check and note to the envelope, folding both in half and tucking it into the pocket of her server’s apron tied loosely around the front of her skirt. Then she smiled at him, “Tell him it’s about damn time.”

“I will,” promised Koushiro with a grin, but she had already turned from him, moving quickly, like she was trying to get away.

“Daisuke, have you printed it?” she asked, voice uneven.

He noticed, and so did the others. Keeping his tone casual, he picked up the newly copied invoice and handed it to her. “Need anything else?”

She folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket as well, shaking her head. “Nope. All good.” She grinned at the others. “I’ll probably have to get going to make sure the hired staff lay everything out right. Maybe we can have lunch next week?”

“Definitely,” piped Takeru, nodding with enthusiasm as Koushiro also murmured in agreement. They exchanged a confused look, startled even more when Daisuke suddenly went after her retreating figure, following her back into the bakery kitchen and leaving the others behind.

“Are you okay?” he asked, trailing after her as she gathered up her bags.

“Of course,” she said.

“Mimi—,”

“I said, I’m okay, Daisuke,” she interrupted. “Don’t push me.” It was not a tone she used often with him, no matter how many times he would annoy her like the little sibling she never wanted, and its foreign use only drove his determination to figure out what was wrong rather than appease it the way the warning should have.

Stubborn, he reached out a hand to pull on her elbow, forcing her to a halt. “You’ve been funny since the—,”

“Things are just stressful right now,” she interrupted, dismissive. “My parents are being their normal insane selves lately, the holiday rush has just been awful this year, I’ve got loads of orders still to finish before it’s really even over, and Jou’s just—,”

Daisuke frowned, “You’ve been talking to Jou?”

She bit her lip, glancing back at him. “A bit, yeah.”

He let go of her arm, surprised. “I thought…well, I thought you’d decided you needed your space?”

“I thought I did, too,” she shrugged, voice soft and lip trembling a little. Then she swallowed the lump and shook her head. “Oh, but this isn’t important to talk about now—,”

He darted towards her, hands on her shoulders. “Whoa, whoa, where is that coming from? What do you mean it’s not important? This is a huge deal! I can’t believe you haven’t told me until now!”

Mimi stared at him. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

His brow creased with several confused lines. “Say what?”

With a loud sigh, Mimi set her bag down once more and pushed open the swinging kitchen door. “Miyako! Get in here!”

Daisuke felt his mouth dry, vision tunneling into a bleak, dark point, as though he were looking down at the tragedy that was his life from so far away that he could not prevent the impending disaster from happening. Amid faint laughter from who he vaguely realized was Takeru, he watched helplessly as Miyako carefully crept into the kitchen, head hung with something like uncomfortable shame, opening her mouth several times to try to explain or defend or deny—she was not yet sure which was the best tactic.

Mimi, for her part, was not interested in any of the above, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve not told you things because I think you’ve been a bit busy.”

Daisuke, who had turned the color of a dark, robust tomato from head to toe, could only gape at his girlfriend, who recovered her voice at last, raising her chin. “We did want to—,”

“But we just didn’t know if—,” interrupted Daisuke.

“Or how—,” said Miyako quickly.

“Or when—,”

“Especially when!” insisted the bespectacled woman. “I mean, in another three weeks, this could all be over, and then it wouldn’t have mattered at all!”

Daisuke nodded. “Yeah!” Then he blanched, horrified. “Wait, what?”

Miyako ignored Daisuke’s bewildered expression, anxiously observing her silent friend. “Are you really mad?”

But Mimi shook her head, the corners of her mouth perking in a small smile. “I’ve known for a while, you know. About a year ago, Daisuke left me a drunk voicemail thinking I was you.” She shivered. “It was pretty graphic, actually….”

“Oh.” Miayko pressed her lips into a thin line, then suddenly smacked Daisuke in the arm. “I told you!”

“It’s not my fault your names start with the same syllable!” he cried, wincing as she raised her arm to strike again. “And I was trying to be romantic!”

She was floored by the defense. “How are explicit messages romantic?”

“If you had heard it, you would have swooned,” he swore. “Tell her, Mimi, tell her how you swooned!”

Miyako smacked him again. “Don’t bring her into this!”

“Too late,” smiled Mimi, and Miyako clapped a hand over her face, embarrassed.

Daisuke was still grumbling. “So that’s why you never responded. I thought it was because you didn’t like that I told you I wanted to lick yo—,”

“No, nope, stop,” interrupted Mimi, hands in the air and shaking her head hard. “I’m not reliving that again. I have successfully managed to repress it and it will remain dormant for the rest of my life, thank you very much.” Then she sighed. “But the point is, I know you two are just starting out for real now, and it’s exciting and fun. I didn’t want to tell you about my problems and bring you down.”

Miyako’s expression softened. “Oh, Mimi. It’s not your job to worry about stuff like that. We’re your friends. You tell us whatever whenever. That’s how it works.”

“It’s true,” agreed Daisuke, recovering his real purpose in the conversation and momentarily setting aside the instinct to bring up Miyako’s comment about three more weeks. He fixed Mimi a serious, earnest stare, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You know you’ve got us, first and always.”

And in spite of herself, Mimi smiled, grateful. “Thanks. We will talk about it, I promise. I’ve really missed talking to you both.”

Daisuke pulled her into a quick hug, letting Miyako embrace her after. “We’ll see you after the event,” she promised the pretty chef, who nodding again as she picked up her bag for the last time, slinging it over her shoulder.

“Oh, and one more thing,” remembered Mimi, walking back to Daisuke. In the next second, her hand had darted out to twist his right ear, hard, and he yelped, struggling to pull away from her surprisingly strong hold. “That’s for still keeping things from me.”

Miyako clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling, then let out a strangled yell when Mimi lashed out with lightening quick reflexes and twisted her ear, too. She held them both that way, yanking them down to her level, speaking with deadly force. “Don’t think we’re not talking about this, too, when I get back.”

“Okay, okay!” whined Daisuke, as Miyako whimpered in agreement.

She released them, slowly backing away with a look of lethal vengeance that neither dared to respond to, standing solemnly as she walked out the back door to the store and to the van already loaded with the food and drink for her last event of the week. She climbed into the passenger seat, the temporary bartender Daisuke had hired taking the wheel as the remaining wait staff followed along in a separate vehicle.

The ride was relatively short, with a little traffic stalling them on the busier roads, but they reached the venue with plenty of time to spare. It was a large, shiny new office space, a design studio whose fashion trends had been the talk of the town since they’d opened. They were celebrating the anniversary of their founding with a special catered lunch and cocktail hour that in all likelihood was going to stretch for the rest of the working afternoon, but the business was good.

Mimi directed her staff in setting up their equipment and serving tables in the lobby of the office, a large open space that was perfect for heavy socializing but still had room enough for all the things that her staff needed to cater the event. They made a makeshift bar from temporary folding tables in the corner of the lobby closest to the elevator bank, covering it over with large purple tablecloths that matched the same material she’d selected to decorate the appetizer tables set up nearby the drinks.

She was just finishing giving her instructions to the waiters who would be helping her and the bartender manage the flow of the room when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She was startled, mouth open. “Sora?”

“I thought it was you,” the redhead laughed. “I’m so sorry for not realizing it was your company catering until now! We just finished wrapping up our last line and I’ve been traveling. I just got back this morning actually.”

Mimi was flustered, feeling awkward. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it. I forgot this was your design studio.”

Sora rolled her eyes. “That’s not really your fault. Taichi forgets it all the time, too; I’m surprised he ever even mentioned my occupation to you, let alone the name of the company.”

She nodded, distracted, face pink. “So you must be tired from all the travelling,” she said in a poor attempt at changing the conversation.

Sora had enough grace not to point it out, however, and smiled warmly at her. “It’s been insanely busy, but at least I get to come home to a party! Do they let you all drink at these events?”

This time it was Mimi who grinned, winking. “Well, I am in charge, so I can give myself permission to do most anything.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Sora with a laugh. “No wonder Taichi likes you so much.”

She didn’t see the effect her quip had on the other woman, reaching around the bar to steal two wine stems and a bottle. “Come on, we’ll take these back to my office for an early start.”

Wordless, Mimi obeyed, following the pretty redhead around the corner from the lobby on the same floor, walking quickly through the corridor to a large, pristinely decorated office space at the end of the hall. She was distracted from the strange buzzing in her head when she looked around the space, speechless for a different reason. She gaped, staring around the floor-to-ceiling window panes between three sets of equally tall bookshelves, all of which were packed with fashion albums, collections and catalogues, and spines upon spines of sketchbooks and drawing pads. On one end of the room was a large white desk, decorated with nothing but a few photo frames and a large desktop computer, while the other end of the room was host to a large artist’s easel and drawing table littered with watercolor paints, colored pencils, and ink pens. On the floor was a huge, circular white rug, on which rested one three-cushion couch and a coffee table supporting stacks of fashion magazines and lookbooks.

“Wow,” whispered Mimi, dumbstruck by the beauty of the place.

“It does make working these insane hours a little better,” admitted Sora, grinning.

“Are these all yours?” asked the younger woman, approaching the nearest bookshelf and pointing to a series of black leather journals.

Sora nodded. “Those are my sketchbooks. Feel free to take a look if you want,” she encouraged, uncorking the wine and pouring out two generous glasses. Picking up the glasses, she returned to Mimi’s side, watching her remove one of the thinner notebooks to peruse. This notebook contained pencil drawings covered in arrows and jotted notes, some finished and some only briefly outlined.

“These are so beautiful,” admired Mimi, impressed.

“They’re also really old,” laughed Sora, good-humored. She handed over one stem to Mimi and they shared a brief toast and sip before setting both drinks down on a spot on one of the shelves. She pulled out a thicker leather bound journal. “This one is from last spring.”

Indeed these drawings did sport more of a professional learning curve, featuring colored additions and extra notation with acronyms and adjustments. Some had been detailed with watercolors and others with archival inks, but each one was impeccably articulated. There were dresses of various styles and occasions, handbags and accessories, and even a few traditional garments that mostly featured pattern ideas for print cloths. Sora pointed out different stories with some of her favorite designs, explaining different items and the process of her work as she did, and Mimi soaked up all the information as they poured over yet several more of the designer’s sketchbooks after that, fascinated by an industry that had always intrigued her but she’d never fully appreciated until now.

“The next time I have an opening or runway show, I’ll definitely get you tickets so you can see them,” Sora was promising her now, sipping liberally from her glass of wine. “The sketches and drawings are my favorite part of the job, but honestly, seeing the designs in person _on_ person is just incredible.” She paused, realizing something. “Kind of like how you can cater a really important event and meet with clients about different designs and ideas, and that’s the part of your job that you love, the creativity of making something new and beautiful and exciting—but still, seeing people experience and taste and enjoy the food you make them is entirely different. Amazing, but different.”

Mimi nodded quickly, having never really been able to articulate her own thoughts about cooking for others in such a way. “That’s exactly it!” she agreed animatedly, sloshing her drink a little in its glass. Face pink, she added, “That’s what I really like most. The plating and the presentation, the giving and making of an experience you can’t put a price on. I think if I didn’t have to deal with the client and business part, I’d be happiest with just the creativity and dining part,” she admitted with a laugh.

Sora shrugged, “So why don’t you? That’s what I’d do. In fact,” she recalled, “that’s exactly what I did. I started out making designs for other people and having people commission things from me, and that’s a great start. But now I get to do what I want. It wasn’t easy,” she corrected herself quickly. “It took me a long hard fight to get to do what I want like this. But I wouldn’t do anything else anymore.”

“Maybe I should,” Mimi grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and returning to the sketchbook in front of her.

“Ms Takenouchi?” announced a new voice. One of the studio’s younger assistants was lingering at the  open door to the office, looking nervous and frazzled. “There’s a call for you, from our overseas branch.”

“And even when the work ends, it never really ends,” sighed Sora as Mimi giggled. “That’s the one bad thing about this. I’ll be back in just a moment,” she promised, hurriedly setting her drink on the desk before following her assistant out the door.

Mimi kept her attention on the sketchbook, flipping through each page and tracing the lined drawings slowly in admiration. She had never been particularly graceful in drawing. It was strange really; put a pencil in her hand and ask her to outline a sketch, and she’d produce something vaguely referentially to the intended figure. But if she had a piping bag or a bit of marzipan to sculpt, it was completely different, completely natural. One just needed the write tools to make something beautiful.

She continued turning the pages, admiring every sketch. When she’d reached the end, she closed the book and looked around, wondering whether to return it to the bookshelf or leave it by the computer. Deciding at last she should be a courteous guest in the otherwise extraordinarily tidy office, Mimi placed her glass beside Sora’s on the countertop and lifted the heavy sketchbook, crossing the room around to the other side of the desk where the bookshelf stood.

But in her attempt in being helpful, struggling to shove the large, leather-bound notebook back into its place between the others on the second highest shelf, she accidentally knocked into the lower shelves and caused several collected trinkets and loose pencils to tumble to the ground, clattering all over the wooden floor. She managed to slip the notebook into the right place and immediately sank to a crouch to gather up the items she’d turned over, annoyed with her clumsiness. It was reaching for the last colored pencil that had rolled under the computer desk that made everything worse: her head hit the table leg and the glasses were knocked over, this time spilling red wine everywhere.

Mimi stared in horror at the leaking, spreading mess, frozen in her stunned disbelief. Then she jumped to her feet, scrambling around for something to soak up the wine, spotting a box of tissues on the other desk corner. She slipped quickly behind the chair, snatching up the box, which only led her to knock over several picture frames and stacks of paper neatly arranged near the tissues.

In utter misery, Mimi started the recovery process around the room, exacting as much damage control as she could with the limited supply of tissues, tossing all the wet used ones into the rubbish bin and righting the (luckily) unbroken glasses, and then trying to reassemble the papers and frames around the desk again, without having any idea what the order had been originally. She guessed instead, which was likely a terrible decision, but then again, she hadn’t exactly been known for making wonderful choices in the past few months (or years, really), silently admonishing herself as she quickly attempted to cover her tracks.

The last photo, one of a smiling younger Sora standing between two older people who Mimi guessed to be her parents, had popped out slightly from its frame. She sat back on her heels to carefully tuck the picture into the right spot, sliding her fingers over the edges to check that it had aligned properly. Her finger caught on a small protruding corner of paper at the bottom of the frame, and Mimi gently laid the photo face down on the ground to take out the different pieces and put them back properly, correcting the protrusion.

It was then that she saw that the paper was not the standard, generic backing most photo frames included as a protective layer between glass, picture, and matte. It was a worn, wrinkled sheet of sketch paper, its edges frayed and torn, about the size of half an index card. And it was blank except for the small, printed words **_Looks nothing like me_** dictated in a crisp, clear penmanship that Mimi did not recognize.

She held the note for a moment, puzzled, until the distinct sound of footsteps approaching jolted her out of her thoughts. Hastily reassembling the photo frame, she set it back on the desk just as Sora walked back into the office, accompanied by this time by, unexpectedly, Taichi.

He was in the middle of cracking an evidently terrible joke, as Sora was making a very disgusted face, when they entered her office. But when they saw each other, Mimi shot up straight, arms at her side, and Taichi stopped speaking, their eyes meeting for the first time in weeks.

“Look who I found in the lobby!” Sora announced in a chirping voice, “And by the way, your party is already hopping out there.”

But Mimi barely heard her, blinking quickly, unable to move.

He had come straight from work. She knew this because his hair, having never boasted any sense of order to begin with, was particularly lopsided in one direction, likely from the many times he’d run his hands through it while grappling with the same difficult work project that had probably also made the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual. She could also see his stress in the way his dark red tie was pulled loose around the starched collar of a shirt so improperly ironed the creases were in all the wrong places, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The suit jacket he carried in his hands (a dark color that did not match the suit pants he was wearing) might have covered up evidence of his poor attempts at looking professional had he worn it, or better yet a pair of proper dress shoes instead of the ratty and worn running sneakers he was sporting, the final nail in the coffin that was his idea of what constituted appropriate work attire. Mimi had a brief, distracted second to wonder how he had possibly managed to get hired looking as mismatched as this, except that, for some reason, the poor fashion decisions weren’t as grating to her as they should have been. Maybe it was because his charisma seemed to make up for the suddenly endearing fact that he had no idea what adulthood meant, or maybe it was because of the way he was looking at her now, like she was the secret he already knew. 

Then he blinked, and the look was gone. “Oh,” he said, dumbly, and Mimi closed her lips together tight.

“Nice greeting, Tai,” teased Sora, amused as she reached for her glass before realizing it was empty. She gave a start, looking around the room, opening her mouth to ask what had happened.

Mimi’s instinct to panic had already set in full throttle by that point, and she yelled out in a high pitched voice, “Wine everywhere!” and darted between them without looking back, rounding the corner into the lobby with her heart pounding. Diving behind temporary drinks bar, she grabbed for her purse from underneath the table and scrambled to find her phone, safely sequestered behind a corner of the tablecloth.

Her fingers were shaking. **_He’s here_**

The response was not particularly intrigued. **_Who?_**

**_You know who, don’t mess with me_ **

Mimi waited a moment for his response, and then—

**_Ahahahahahahahaha you’re fucked._ **

**_MICHAEL_ **

**Ok, sheesh, calm down.**

**_I AM CALM_ **

**_Well you can’t leave so just stay cool._ **

**_I could if I call Daisuke to come_ **

**_Mimi, you know running away will only just end up with you spending the rest of your life thinking about him._ **

She stopped, fingers poised over the keypad, staring.

He replied before she could. **_I meant night. You’ll spend the rest of your night like this. Do you really want that?_**

She took a long moment before responding, breath light, heart dim. **_No._**

**_Well there you have it._ **

She toggled the screen off and tucked the mobile into the pocket of her server’s apron, taking a low, long breath.

Cool.

She could do cool.

She _was_ cool.

When was she _not_ cool?

Wait—was thinking about being cool uncool?

A finger slivered forward and poked into her shoulder, causing her to jump up in a fright.

“Excuse me, young lady,” said the older, rosy-cheeked office secretary standing in front of her. “I don’t think you made my drink right.”

“No, no, I didn’t—I’m not the bartender—,” said Mimi, flustered, trying to shield the side of her face with a hand and fearfully looking about the room as she stood up.

The woman held out her glass of clear tonic in a trembling, wrinkly hand. “But this isn’t what I ordered.”

Mimi barely glanced at the drink. “I didn’t—oh, will you just go away— _please_!”

“Hey, just let her have another drink,” said another attendee nearby, glaring at her with disapproval.

His remarks were echoed loudly by the others around them, despite Mimi’s attempts at defending herself, until she finally cried out over their rising chorus of annoyed voices, “Fine!” and snatched the drink from the secretary’s hand so quickly it looked more as though she had struck her instead. The woman shrank away, fearful, as others immediately rose to their embittered secretary’s defense, funneling negative energy towards Mimi for her perceived rudeness. Still clutching the drink, Mimi was torn between sheer dismay at how much of a mess she was making of the night and trying to point out that she hadn’t really done anything wrong, a defense that only seemed to escalate the chaos rather than diffuse it.

She was left sputtering to herself as the still terrified old woman was ushered away by her compassionate colleagues. But what was worst was the way her stomach twisted into knots when she saw from the corner of her a familiar grin approaching the bar.

Gritting her teeth, she tossed her head and raised her chin, smacking the drink onto the countertop and crossing her arms. “All right, how much of that did you see?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as possible, ignoring the funny way her throat seemed to constrict when his twinkling eyes caught hers. That look she thought she saw in Sora’s office was gone, replaced instead with a teasing gleam of delight at witnessing yet another one of her clumsy public antics, like things were normal, like it hadn’t been their first real interaction in such a long time that she had actually, _achingly_ missed it more than she could stand, like nothing was different, like everything was the same, as always, between them.

“If by ‘that,’” said Taichi with drawling, cocky casualness, “you mean the way you emotionally manhandled a defenseless elderly woman,” and he paused, leaning over the bar, “just about all of it.”

She chose to ignore the otherwise keen observation, swallowing a smirk at the clever quip. “I didn’t think you were the type to be so easily fooled by the innocent grandmother scam,” she sniffed.

Taichi kept grinning. “Why is it that we both seem exceptionally good at getting complete strangers to hate us? What, with the self-gratifying metal band at that terrible nightclub, my neighbor you peeped at a while back, and this crowd here….”

“They don’t hate me,” Mimi started to dismiss, until she caught the eye of a glowering man who kept shooting her dirty looks, while others were helping the secretary into a chair and searching for a bottle of water for her, muttering crossly amongst themselves. Face pink, she turned her back to them so to block them out and shook her head. “This is why I hate coming out to these events. Everyone thinks they’re entitled to whatever they want. Clients are the worst.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, we’re right awful shits.” Her face turned a shade darker but he went on before she could sputter out another pitiful retort. “I can say this now because I am officially no longer a client,” he added. “Right?” He looked at her for something like approved agreement, searching her gaze in a way that took her off guard.

But she didn’t want him to know how getting that check and note from someone else had made her feel, because she was still mad at herself for feeling so much about in the first place. So she shrugged instead, deliberately nonchalant. “I’ll wait a few weeks to deposit it, just in case,” she said.

He chuckled, “Don’t worry, I got a raise with this new job. They’re making me work for it though. I don’t think I’ve ever been this busy.” He added after a moment, “Sora inviting me here’s the first fun thing I’ve done since Daisuke’s birthday party.”

Mimi nodded, keeping her cool. “It was a fun party.”

“Too much fun?” he asked, glancing around the room with equally measured coolness.

She shrugged. “Can’t really remember all that much, so probably yes, I guess.” Then she smirked, “It certainly was for Daisuke. His hangover lasted for days. He fell asleep during a client meeting and snored so loudly they thought a storm was rolling in.”

Taichi grinned, shaking his head. “I can’t figure out how he can have such a great relationship with your clients after doing things like that, but you can turn up to events and singlehandedly get entire hordes to despise you.” Mimi wrinkled her nose, put off by that very contradiction in experience herself, and Taichi went on, shrugging. “If anything, I feel like all this just bolsters your plan to get out of the client-having business and into the patron-serving one. Unless that’s not still the plan?” he added, in a strange nod to the fact that they hadn’t talked in a while, and perhaps she had changed her mind.

Being reminded of how long it’d been since they’d spoken only made her head hurt more, so she refused to give it any weight. “It is,” she answered shortly instead. Her cheeks remained colored with a rosy glow, hazel eyes downcast. She fidgeted about behind the bar, poking through the stash of napkins and drinking straws the hired staff had assembled there, watching the servers move around the room between guests, serving up the last of her appetizers. “Well, maybe. I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s not an easy decision to make, changing careers, even if you can do it without saying anything.”

“I did, too,” he said at once. “I told you. Remember that month my dad was recovering, and you, Hikari and Willis would come over and help quiz me on interview questions?”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, struggling to recover. “I thought that was just the kind of thing your family liked to do after dinner.”

He laughed, and she felt breathless shivers run through every inch of her skin from the sound of it. So she rolled her hands into little fists in the pockets of her apron, trying to focus her heart from feeling like it was going to lift right out of her chest if he kept smiling at her like that. Her left fingers traced over the case of her cell phone, but her right curled around a small sheet of paper. Her stomach dropped, realizing at once what it was, and this time Taichi could read her expression perfectly.

He straightened, intoxicating grin fading. “You all right?”

She pulled out the paper and looked at it, lips parted.

Taichi frowned, confused. “Why are you carrying around a note from Yamato?”

Her eyes snapped up. “This is Yamato’s handwriting?”

“I’m pretty sure,” he said, reaching for the paper. She pulled her palm back at once, on instinct, and Taichi made a face. “What, you think I’m going to eat it?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but suddenly she almost expected him to do something, destroying or tampering with it in a way that would mean she’d be unable to return it to the picture frame before Sora could find out. “Oh, no,” she whispered to herself, face pale.

Taking advantage of her distraction, Taichi’s arm darted out and grabbed the paper, lifting it before she could react. He cocked his head to the side, studying the note. “Where did you get this?”

“It was in—it fell out when I knocked into her desk,” she stammered, leaning forward to take it back. But he was too quick for her, slipping from her reach easily. “Just give it back! I have to return it!”

He raised a hand, confused. “You’re saying you found this in Sora’s office? That she was keeping it on her desk?”

“Yes, which is why I have to—,” and she stopped, staring at him. “Is that weird or something?”

Taichi shook his head. “Not really, not if she still…,” but he cut himself off, brow creased in thought. “You’re sure she had this on her desk? Like with her picture frames?”

“It was behind the one with her parents,” she admitted with some discomfort, unsure if she was adding to the betrayal by telling him all this, but too curious to find out what was surprising him to keep quiet.

So he confided in her, too, showing her the torn edge of the weathered note. “See this? It’s ripped from another page. It’s half of one sheet.”

Her eyes widened in mock astonishment. “Gosh, why aren’t you a detective, Yagami?”

He ignored both her sarcasm and the instinct to be offended by how thick she seemed to assume he was, focusing on the situation before them. “I’ve seen what the other half of this sheet belongs to.”

Mimi was looking at him expectantly, so he leaned forward to lower his voice, telling her the whole story.

He spoke carefully. “Sora and Yamato used to get coffee from the same café before they met. That’s how they first noticed each other, but they were both too shy to say anything at first. Eventually Sora started sketching him whenever he came into the café. She’d wait for him to show and filled up this whole notebook just with drawings of him. I guess she must have thought she was being real sly about it, but one day he tore out half of a page from his book, wrote her this message,” and he waved the paper in his hand, “and slipped it to her. That’s how they started talking.”

Mimi, whose already sugary heart had been melting through the course of the story, now regarded him with bright, watery eyes, successfully forgetting all her own grievances and doubts and worries. “That is precious,” she whispered, so moved she was practically cooing.

Taichi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, the real ‘precious’ thing here,” he pointed out with emphasis on the detestable word, “is that she still keeps this note, and with the picture that I happen to know is also her most prized personal possession. Don’t you see what’s going on?”

But she was already distracted, remembering her predicament. “I’ve got to put it back,” she muttered, plotting in her head, and Taichi sighed loudly to get her attention again.

“It means there’s still a real good chance we could put something else back, too,” he declared.

Her ears perked at the keyword, and she frowned. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

“You’re the one who stole this from her—,”

“I did not _steal_ anything!”

“—and as far as things go, you’re part of this now.” He studied her carefully. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” she protested at once, hands up in surrender. “I’m not getting involved, and I’m not letting you drag me into something that’s bound to blow up in your face.”

“Why do you assume I would fail? When have I ever failed?”

“You shouldn’t interfere,” said Mimi hotly. “Even if she’s keeping it, they’ve been broken up for a long time now, and it’s not our place to tell them what to do.”

“It’s a harmless little scheme,” he said and she stifled a gasp, hand over her small mouth.

“Don’t call it a ‘scheme’!” she cried. “That makes it worse! You can’t scheme people into being together, or force them to make a decision if they’re still confused about things. You’ve got to let them figure things out for themselves, without rushing them into a choice just to—,” and she stopped, sucking in her breath, because he was staring at her in that funny way again, that look slipping back over dark brown eyes, all while another face swam in front of her with a haunting, guilty tug on her confused and sinking heart.

“Right. You’re right,” he said, placing the small paper slip on the counter and sliding it back towards her across the bar. “Well, you’d better put it back then.”

She swallowed hard, lips pursed, shaking thoughts of Jou away and avoiding looking at Taichi now. “I will.”

“Good,” he said, gesturing past her shoulder and raising a hand. He was motioning to the actual bartender, who had returned from carrying a tray of drinks around the crowded lobby. She was terribly grateful for the change in conversation, trying to keep her cool as she listened to Taichi give his drink orders. She helped the bartended uncork another bottle of wine, handing it to him so he could pour two glasses for Taichi. Carrying one stem in each hand, he looked up at Mimi again, nodded his chin at the paper still sitting on the counter. She pocketed at once, cheeks red, and he inclined his head in the direction of Sora’s office. “Coming?”

“In a bit,” she said. “I’ve got to make sure things are sorted here first.”

“I’ll try to figure out a way to distract her when you do come by, so give me a signal when you want to make the drop.” And he winked, humor returning as he found another way to turn the new plan into something just as amusing for him as a romantic ambush, and Mimi, relieved that the awkwardness was gone, and that he wasn’t going to push the subject, merely wrinkled her nose.

He had only a moved a few steps away when suddenly he remembered something, stopping to call back. “Also, could you bring Sora a glass of white wine when you come ‘round? That’ll be a good excuse to make it back to her office.”

Mimi was not sure if she should express concern for Sora requiring another glass wine so soon after being given the first, but she didn’t have to worry about it for long, for it was then that a familiar, pretty face squeezed through the throngs of office workers and appeared, affectionately, by Taichi’s side.

“Hi, you two! Oh, is that for me?” piped Catherine, bright blue gaze catching on one of the stems in Taichi’s hand.

He handed it off to her. “Don’t ever say I’m not always thinking about you.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t,” she joked. “That’s too creepy.”

“Don’t act like my being creepy doesn’t make you hot,” he teased back, matching her wit for wit. He caught her free hand in his, fingers entwining confidently with her own and giving her a little tug. “Come on, all the cool kids are hanging out in Sora’s office.”

“See you later, Mimi,” Catherine said in greeting before ducking away with him.

Mimi opened her mouth to respond, but they had slipped away already, and she felt her tongue grow thick in her throat. Turning back, she blinked quickly, trying to even her breathing, as the bartender reached around her to pick up a new tray lined with freshly poured cocktails. She let the switch turn in her head, accepting the mental release of focusing on her work instead, and intervened in his reach to lift the tray herself.

“It’s all right,” she insisted cheerfully, smile bright, “I’ve got it.”

She proceeded to make the rounds, putting on her best smile and charismatic charm, doing what she could to dispel the previous impression she’d made with the crowd still gathered around the elderly secretary, who obliged her by accepting a glass with a friendly, forgiving smile. It was a small step, but it was enough, and Mimi continued, returning to what she really did love about this job, focusing on these small acts. It made it easier to forget everything else.

And it worked, succeeding so well that she did not realize she still had Yamato’s note tucked into her pocket until she made it back to the empty closing catering shop, many hours later. Seated in the armchair at the front of the store, she stared at the paper for an exhausted moment, so tired from the hard work at the predictably prolonged event and the even longer clean up that it took several seconds to register what the note even was. But then she did, and she remembered the story, and what it meant for Sora to have held onto this, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself. Mimi knew what that was like. She had too many things she wouldn’t admit to herself.

And there was really only one person she wanted to admit them to, one person who she wanted to listen to it all. This time, he would.

“You’re back,” Daisuke said, emerging from the bakery kitchen and stifling a yawn as he toweled off his flour-dusted hands. “I was beginning to think it was one of those office parties that turns into all night ragers, because if so, I was going to get real annoyed I didn’t volunteer for event myself. But then I thought that maybe you—,” but he stopped, seeing her clearly in the flickering fluorescent lights.

Before she could slide down on her side completely, he’d reached her, and she buried her face into his chest, his arms curled around her thin frame protectively.

“I think I’m too late,” she whispered through warm, thick tears.

“Hey, now,” said Daisuke, voice soft, “I’m the poster boy for doing things too late, and look where I’m at.” He stroked her hair, tracing the curve of her wet cheek. “Don’t write things off already. Jou’ll understand. He’s great at understanding. If you just talk to him, I bet he’ll want to try again.”

She hiccupped, too tired to pretend anymore. “That’s not it, Dais.”

He frowned, confused. “Then what are you talking about?”

She sniffled, breathing hard. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

He tightened his arm around her. “Say what?”

She tucked her head against his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look at him when she confessed her secret, drawing a long, heavy breath. “I didn’t want to try again with Jou." She shook her head, lip trembling. "I wanted Taichi.” 


	18. Can you feel my heart again?

“Come on, Dad! Don’t be so pathetic!”

Susumu wheezed, swallowing back a hacking cough. “Tai,” he gasped, sweat pouring over his forehead in the warm spring afternoon, “don’t me take away the life I gave you.”

But Taichi was unperturbed by threats of bodily harm, for better or worse. “You’d have to catch me first!” he yelled back, sprinting far enough to get out of any physical danger before glancing over his shoulder. His father had advanced only a few spaces, exerting minimal effort and even less interest in pretending that trying mattered to him at all. Several paces behind him trailed an equally sweaty Willis, his blond hair plastered like a wet yellow mop over an otherwise handsome face, pink skin splotchy.

“Pick it up, Willis,” called Taichi, to which the blond simmered defensively.

“I chose to work with computers so I’d never have to do things like this,” the man grumbled back, deeply offended by his present situation.

“Don’t even try that excuse,” Taichi dismissed at once. “Koushiro’s one of the best footballers I know, and he could program before he could speak.”

“Then why aren’t you working out with him?” whined Susumu, craning his neck and flailing his arms about like a grumpy windmill.

“Because he’s in perfect shape, and your shapes are better suited to tins of lard.” Taichi jogged back to his father, circling around behind him and hovering nearby. “Now come on, get moving!”

Willis had finally fallen into weary step with the elder Yagami, limbs so out of practice they felt like gelatin. He did not bother lowering his voice, craning his neck towards Susumu and muttering loudly, “I say we make a run for it.”

“We’ve been running all morning!” cried Susumu, hysterical and on the verge of exaggerated tears. “I don’t think this is what the doctor meant when he suggested a more active lifestyle, Taichi. _This_ is torture.”

“Yes, a long and healthy life, what a terrible sentence,” said the son, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “You know, if you both spent even half the energy you use on complaining on running instead, you’d be done and the halfway through the cool off lap—,”

“There’s _more_?” wailed Susumu in dismay, while Willis blanched, face a sickly white.

Taichi slowed to a stop, grasping for the whistle around his neck. He jingled it threateningly at the pair as they passed by him at a glacial pace. “Don’t make me add another set!”

They hissed in unison, faces scrunched in both exertion and irritation, but Taichi was not going to ease up yet. He’d already severely revised the initial workout plan before they had even started this weekly exercise routine, having received only enough support from his mother and sister to get the two men to reluctantly agree to the training (this, and new loose-fitting yellow and green jerseys for Susumu and Willis respectively; however, in hindsight, it was clear the matching outfits did not inspire much).

It had become immediately clear that they were going to fight him every step of the way, and they’d followed through on that promise. Each week’s session only seemed to be worse rather than better, despite Hikari’s predictions. It was now at the point that two laps around the local park took well over an hour at the snail-like pace they insisted on, and Taichi was half convinced they were purposely slowing down in a wicked plot to frustrate him out of the gig entirely.

But Taichi was just as stubborn as his father, and Willis was proving too well how naturally he fit in with the Yagami men on that front. So here they were again, inching their way over the gravel footpath of the park’s tiny pond, being passed by waddling toddlers and the even slower moving elderly with embarrassing frequency.

They finished the lap much later than Taichi had wanted, and he could feel his patience being stretched thin. He started to bark out an order for the stretching exercises as they came to a stop in a small grassy area off the pathway, when there was a tap on his shoulder.

Miyako pulled out her earphones, grinning at him through round spectacles. She was outfitted comfortably in her running shorts and a tank, a headband pushing her long hair back from her face. She stepped back once she’d gotten his attention, breathing a little hard from stopping in the middle of her run. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t know you ran in this park?”

“Not usually,” he admitted. “There’s a gym at my new office that’s pretty nice. I’m here trying to get these two to be a little more active,” and he motioned to the other men behind him, jabbing a thumb in their direction.

Miyako peered over his shoulder. “Get who?”

Stomach dropping at his mistake, Taichi spun around just in time to see flashes of yellow and green darting to the far ends of the park in their mad dash to freedom, sprinting around bewildered joggers and startled children. The pair careened around the corner of the path, hurdling behind trees too thin to hide much of anything, streaking off as far as they could in the sudden, fresh bursts of speed, using whatever energy they had left—or likely had held in reserve for this moment—to get away from their trainer in this split second moment.

Taichi sighed, shaking his head, no longer surprised by how quickly they had sprung into surprising action the moment they detected a break his attention on them. “I don’t know where they think they’re escaping to,” he said in a dry voice. “I know where both of them live.”

She stifled a laugh, balancing on one foot to stretch the other behind her, hand clasped around a thin ankle. She stood there, smiling up at him, perching almost serenely in her pose. He contemplated trying the same move, eyeing the way she seemed to be so effortlessly athletic and now mildly concerned with how he appeared.

She continued chatting as she stretched. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages. You don’t really come by the shop anymore.”

“The new office is—,”

“Across town, I know,” she nodded. “Do you like it?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Though I have had to start bringing lunches into work now, which is awful. But I am getting pretty creative about sandwich fillings.”

Her eyebrow arched in amusement. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” he admitted with a laugh. “But if you want to tell—tell her that I’m putting the garlic peeler to good use, it wouldn’t be a lie.”

Her expression flickered a little at the slip of his tongue, but he avoided her gaze. Looking for something else to do, he started to casually lower his right arm down the side of his right leg, heroically masking the doubtful attempt with a subtle scratch of his knee when Miyako blurted out, “Why did you leave?”

Taichi stopped mid-scratch, awkwardly leaning with his head titled at an angle. He stared at her upside-down. “Why did I what?”

Miyako released her ankle, reaching for the other. Her frown was thoughtful. “When we brought Daisuke home that night after his birthday party, she was looking for you, but you left.” She lowered her left foot at last, crossing her arms. “I saw you.”

He straightened slowly, fingers curled at his waist for a restless moment, until he took a step back from her and raised his chin, jaw set. He rubbed his thumb over the hairline at the nape of his neck. “Did you tell her?”

Miyako exacted him a long look, then finally shook her head.

And he should have been relieved, but he wasn’t.

 “I don’t particularly like gaslighting my friends, you know,” Miyako was saying now, brow wrinkled with disapproval.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said quietly.

“So why haven’t you told her?”

He raised an eyebrow. “And make things complicated?”

Her face colored a light pink and for a moment she looked genuinely speechless, a result that Taichi found more than a little satisfactory. She pursed her lips, fixing her glasses straight. “I shouldn’t have told you that,” she admitted, surprising him.

“Oh,” he said, taken aback by her blunt admission when he’d expected denial instead. “Uh—,”

“I get carried away sometimes,” she went on, not listening to him. “But it’s only because I love her. And I want her to have good things, things she deserves. Like someone who’ll be there.” She paused once more. “Someone who doesn’t leave.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. He came back, didn’t he? He’s good for her.”

“Yeah,” she nodded distractedly. “He is.”

And he thought he imagined something like a hollow conviction to her words, as though she didn’t believe herself. Or maybe that was only what he wanted to hear.

She uncrossed her arms, taking a few stiff steps back, thumb and forefinger tugging at the hem of her jacket. “We’ve all got people who are good for us, don’t we? The trick is finding them.”

“Sounds like you did,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood. It worked, and she smiled shyly at him, something he’d never seen her do before. “She did, too, you know. You should trust her on it.” He straightened, awkwardly stretching his arms behind his back. “Anyway, I should probably figure out where they ran off to, so—,”

“Oh, right,” she remembered suddenly, grinning. “Good luck.”

He smirked. “Thanks. Tell Daisuke I say hello, yeah?”

She nodded with enthusiasm, as though relieved they were parting on better terms, and waved after him as he jogged down the path around the park, peering around each curve and corner. He found his father and Willis lounging comfortably on a bench only ten minutes from where they had been training earlier, contented with large scoops of ice cream from a mobile truck vendor.

Susumu lowered the cone to his lap, eyes narrowed with calculation. “We talked it over. We’re willing to cut you a deal.”

Taichi folded his arms tight over his chest, no longer in a good mood. “Is that so?”

Willis nodded. “In exchange for a comprise over the quantity of these torture sessions—,”

“Work outs,” corrected Taichi tonelessly.

“—we are willing to improve the quality of our efforts.”

“Bearing in mind that we retain the right to mutiny if needed,” added Susumu.

“And we will,” promised Willis darkly.

Taichi relaxed his slouch. “Fine. But I expect you to check the number of your complaints each time. They’re too repetitive.”

“Then you should stop yelling at us so much,” pouted Susumu.

“We’re not children,” agreed Willis, sniffing and rubbing his nose as he shoved more ice cream into his mouth.

“All right,” sighed Taichi. “I won’t yell.”

“Naturally,” said Susumu after another bite of the cold dessert, “there’s no need to share any of this information with the women.”

“‘The women’?” repeated Taichi with a raised eyebrow.

“It is better they keep on thinking we’re dedicated athletes.”

“Despite all the evidence to the contrary,” Willis muttered in a low voice.

Taichi shook his head. “Anything else?”

Susumu looked thoughtful. “Yes. Can you bring along Mimi next time? I like having her around.”

He tensed up, neck suddenly stiff. “I can’t just summon friends like spirits, Dad.”

The pair exchanged glances. “I guess they’re friends then,” grinned Willis. “You owe me.”

The older man cursed under his breath while Taichi’s jaw dropped. “Are you—you’re betting on—what are you two—?”

“Oh, it’s harmless,” dismissed his father. Then he grumbled, “But I really thought for a minute that you might have been able to win me a little pocket money, son. Nice work.”

“I have a girlfriend!” cried Taichi, indignant.

But they weren’t paying him attention anymore, muttering between themselves as Willis held out an eager, outstretched hand and Susumu squabbled over the bills in his leathery wallet. Hissing, Taichi spun around on his heels. “We’re running twice as long next time!”

Their heads snapped up, mouths open in protest. “Not fair!” yelled Willis.

“The inheritance is not looking too good for you!” threatened Susumu.

“All the better!” shouted Taichi as he stomped off with more irritation than he intended to show, his head swimming.

He fumed all the way home, trying to sort out the confusing mess in his mind, until at last he pulled out his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts and called the one person whose ever present clarity might prove useful to right the fog he treaded now.

Yamato did not sound particularly giving this time, however, or interested in the problems of others. “Takeru’s sick,” he explained. “We won’t be much fun.”

“Why are you babysitting a grown man?” said Taichi, sounding sourer than he wanted.

Luckily, his best friend was used to such petulant behavior and brushed it aside. “I just drove him to the doctor’s. We’re back at his now, and I was gonna make some food. You could come over if you want.”

“Is he contagious?”

“Possibly.”

Taichi weighed his options. “All right. Getting sick might be the fun thing to happen this week.”

“Cross your fingers,” replied Yamato dryly before hanging up.

Stopping at the convenience store to purchase a replenishing sports drink and a box of tissues, he took the train to the intersection closest to Takeru’s building, climbing the stairs to his door a little while later. Yamato answered after he’d knocked impatiently a few times, visibly annoyed by Taichi’s curt methods for demanding entry, but the latter did not care. He flounced towards the couch and was almost ready to collapse his still sweaty self onto the cushions when Yamato let out a yelp and Taichi realized that the patient in question was curled up there.

So Taichi settled himself on one of the arm chairs instead, stretching his sore legs before him and nudging the box of tissues across the floor with his foot. “For your hospitality,” he offered.

Yamato raised an eyebrow, pulling one of the dining chairs over to take a seat on Taichi’s other side, gesturing at his friend to speak in hushed tones so the dozing Takeru could remain undisturbed. “It’s not a cold. He’s just been having a lot of migraines. All the stress at work, I guess.”

“Takeru? Stressed?” Taichi shook his head. “He’s the most relaxed guy I know. Nothing gets his positivity down.”

“He just bottles it up.” Yamato shook his head. “Like Dad.”

“Like you,” Taichi pointed out wisely.

The other ignored the apt comparison, changing the subject. “Just finished up another work out session?”

Taichi groaned, leaning back in the armchair and rubbing his face. “They’re the worst, Yamato. I have to drag them kicking and screaming every time. Is it really that much of a chore to keep healthy?”

“You’re not exactly a compassionate teacher, Tai. I think Hikari got that, not you.”

“I didn’t get to good at football by having pleasant, sensitive coaches.”

“This isn’t a competitive sport,” said Yamato with a laugh. “Look, I know you’re happy you’ve got something to do that makes you feel useful for helping your dad feel better and keeping them in shape, but you got to realize that bossing them around isn’t going to win you any friends.”

“I don’t want any more friends,” Taichi muttered, wincing a little at the word, remembering the last conversation in front of the ice cream truck. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Or at least that’s not what made today frustrating. I ran into Miyako at the park, and she—,” he groaned, cutting himself off. “God, everyone’s just got the wrong idea in their heads about us.”

Yamato blinked slowly. “About you and Miyako?”

Taichi shot him a look. “Yes. Absolutely. Miyako. Come on, you know who.”

The corner of his mouth curled in a way that Taichi did not find at all comforting. “Well, what about it?”

“I don’t know. It was weird. They’re all being weird,” Taichi grumbled, more confused than bothered. “They’re acting like I don’t know that we—,” and he stopped, sudden, blinking quickly. “It’s like they don’t think I know how it works. That I don’t appreciate how we’ve all got people who are good for us. Miyako and Daisuke, Jou and—,” he winced and shook his head, fingers twisting at thick bangs. “They’re all reading into things that don’t mean anything.”

Yamato shrugged. “If they’re all seeing it, is it really an illusion?”

But he’d already tuned him out. “I see fine.”

“Oh, do you?”

And maybe it was the taunting way Yamato could always rile him up, or that it was impossible for him to hide much of anything to anyone, least of all his best friend. But he couldn’t speak, stuttering his way through an incoherent response, speechless only on the rare occasions when he knew there was no way out, and Yamato knew it, too.

“It’s not like that.” Taichi grit his teeth, bristling in annoyance. Then he relaxed his shoulders, slouching forward, eyes downcast. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “It can’t be like that,” he corrected after a moment. When the other man did not respond, and only gazed at him in that contemplative, knowing way, he shook his head quickly and ruffled his hair. “Quit asking me this stuff! I enjoy acting like I don’t have emotions; don’t ruin it for me.”`

“Good grief,” said Yamato, rolling his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone you have feelings.”

Taichi pulled a face at him, which only made the other man shake his head, refusing to sink this level of childish retort. He continued instead, “But there’s something else about that ‘good for’ line that I don’t think is right. I mean, you can’t _really_ be good for anyone, can you? It doesn’t make any sense. You’ve got to be good for yourself first.”

Taichi shrugged, thinking, scrunching his shoulders and balancing his wrists on his knees. “Seems like the universe apparently agrees with you on that.” He paused, thoughtful. “Could have done without the left-at-the-altar teaching method it gave me though.”

Yamato smirked. “Like anything easy could get through that thick head of yours.”                                                                                                                                       

He laughed, scratching his chin. “Well, even if you’re right, I still think some people need someone. Someone who helps you figure out how to let you be good for yourself first, who’ll wait and watch and won’t let you do it alone. Whether or not they’re good for us or good to us,” he shrugged in answer, unsure. Finally, he nodded. “But I think the goodness is still there.”

The young man smiled, mouth lifting gently. “You think you found it?”

Taichi grinned back. “I think you did.”

His eyes narrowed quickly, suddenly stretched thin like a snapped rubber band. “Don’t turn this around. We’re talking about you.”

“Are we though?” he asked in an airy, quizzical tone. “You wouldn’t be so annoyed if it weren’t true.”

But Yamato was quicker. His eyes flashed, “And you can’t even say her name. Who’s living the illusion now?”

Taichi’s smile disappeared.

It was a long time before either let their walls down, and even longer before one spoke. In the end, it was Taichi, who had been filling the silence with a lot of distracted fidgeting. He rubbed his nose harder this time, the tip burning red. “Truce?” he grumbled.

“Truce,” Yamato murmured.

And, on second thought, Taichi’s hand darted out and slipped around the other’s shoulders, bringing him in for a kiss on the top of his head. “Yamato,” he whispered, “I’d do anything for you except let you give up what’s good. And you know she is.”

He gently pulled back, face turned. “She made her choice, Tai.”

But he was earnest, pressing forward. “Then change it.”

In response, Yamato only shrugged his shoulders in that helpless way, resigned not to defeat but to the reality of knowing when things were beyond change.

Taichi leaned forward. “Do you still have the ring?”

“Of course, I still have it,” he said immediately, a little cross.

He smiled at the surly manner, unaffected. “Why?”

“Because,” Yamato snapped in irritation.

“Why?”

“Don’t make me punch you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re asking to get punched.”

“Because you know it belongs to her.”

“Well, of course it does!”

Taichi sat back in a preening sort of way, smirk wide and sneaky.

There was a little groan from the couch, and Takeru stirred as he turned on his side, arm laying over his still closed eyes. “If you two are done wallowing over your own wrong romantic choices, can you get out and let me sleep?”

Yamato grabbed a sofa pillow and threw it, releasing his frustration at his brother instead. The pillow did nothing, of course, bouncing off Takeru’s head without as much as a wince. Instead, the young writer snuggled even deeper into the cushions, sighing.

“Like you’re any better,” the elder brother retorted.

“I’m not the one who’s wondering if he’s let the right woman get away.”

Yamato snapped, “That’s only because you haven’t got one in the first place.”

“So which one of us is smarter? Me or you?”

Taichi stared between them. “Is this how you two fight?”

Both ignored him.

Takeru rolled back over, propping himself up on his elbows. He still had that little smirk under each word he spoke, but there was more of an edge this time, the way there always was when he was determined to win an argument. “You know what’s weird to me?”

“That stupid hat you used to wear as a kid?”

“You haven’t even tried meeting anyone else.”

Taichi sat back, eyes wide. “He’s right. You haven’t.”

Yamato said nothing, mouth a thin line, and Takeru let the hardness in his voice fall away. “That was your choice, and you need to face what it means.”

Taichi marveled at the wisdom of the younger man’s words, mind preoccupied. He gave a start when those dark blue eyes swiveled towards his direction, piercing him with exacting study. “Your choice means something, too, you know.” Takeru rose to his feet, shaking his head and lifting his chin with the air of resolution. “You both need to get your shit together.” He stomped from the room, muttering about the lack of silence and how he could never find a moment’s peace, slamming the door shut to the bedroom.

The other two remained perched in their seats for a while longer, hands curled over stiff knees.

Taichi scrunched up his nose. “Man, I think you pissed him off.”

Yamato glowered. “So did you.”

“I wasn’t the one who made fun of his hat.”

“It was a stupid hat!”

He waved at him frantically, hissing, “He might still hear you!”

Yamato stared at him in disbelief. “Are you actually scared of Takeru?”

“I just don’t think we should say anything we might regret!”

He stood up suddenly, exasperated. “Since when have _you_ cared about regrets?”

“Since I—,” but he stopped himself, brown eyes wide, lips parted in what would have been a comical gape if he didn’t also look genuinely astonished.

Yamato’s eyebrows raised at the same time. When a full moment passed, he asked in a flat voice, “Have you gone into shock?”

He blinked, breathing hard. “I have to go.”

The other started to speak again, but Taichi couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything. It felt like electricity through his skin, breath caught in his chest. He was up before he could tell himself to move, out the door before he could remember stepping onto the street, fumbling for his phone without thinking, calling without knowing a single word he would say.

Catherine answered only after the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Are you free?”

“What?”

“Right now, are you free? If I came over?”

“It’s not really a great time, but—,”

“Please.” He came to a halt at the next crosswalk, gripping his phone tighter. “I just—I’ve got to ask you something.”

Her hesitation was thick, stretching into a lingering wonder. “And you can’t over the phone?”

He shook his head until he realized she wouldn’t be able to hear that. “No.”

“All right,” she agreed. “Can you give me a little time to settle in? I’m just on my way home now.”

“I’ll come over in an hour,” he said, relief echoing in his voice.

Catherine laughed. “All right, contain yourself, will you?”

“Promise you’ll be there?”

“Where would I go?”

“I just—promise you’ll listen?”

Her tone was still warm, if a little more muted this time. “Yes, I will.”

They ended the conversation, and Taichi strode quickly across the street. He bent forward to look at his phone as he walked, thumbs tapping nervously against the frame. Chewing on his lip, he opened a text message, pausing a moment when he saw the timestamp printed with the date of the last time they’d written each other. Had he really let it last so long?

**_got a sec?_ **

He waited, slowing his pace. It was at the next corner that her reply came.

**_For you?_ **

But Mimi didn’t answer the joking text the way the rhetoric cliché would have required, and when he saw that she hadn’t, he stopped abruptly, standing still just below his apartment building entrance.

**_yes me_ **

He held his breath.

**_Then always._ **

He brought the mobile to his ear, and she answered before the first ring could even finish.

She sounded rushed and out of breath, and he could hear the sounds of street traffic in the background, the faint murmurs of crowds echoing through the phone line. “I wish you had better timing.”

“I don’t think I like the suggestion that something about me isn’t perfect,” he said at once.

Her laughter was more relaxed, and he felt the electricity rush back into his fingertips, breath caught. He concentrated elsewhere, trying to focus. “Where are you?”

“At the farmer’s market. I forgot to send Daisuke this morning and there’s a rush order for tomorrow.”

“Busy season never ends in the catering business, does it?”

There was more shuffling. “Are you really calling me to ask about business patterns?”

He smirked, casting a hand over his face. “I can’t help what I find fascinating.”

“Well,” and she sighed loudly, a door echoing shut, “that should make Daisuke happy. He’s got some ideas to build the business out a little more.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“Actually, I had an interview with for a—for an apprenticeship, so soon it might be up to him to figure out things like that.”

He raised his chin, breath light. “An interview?”

“Michael found out about it for me. It’s a patisserie near his home, so I had to take a weekend trip up for it. The travelling was awful.” She paused, “But I think it went pretty well.”

“Oh. I—well, that’s good, right?” He shook his head, cheeks pink, “I mean, that’s great. ‘Course, it went well! You’re a fantastic chef, Mimi.”

Her voice seemed to fill with a flattered smile. “I won’t know for a few more weeks, but I’m hopeful.”

“You’re going to get it,” he declared confidently. “Trust me, I’ve had my share of these types of stints with all the projects I have to do for work. They’re just giving you the ‘we’ll think about it’ line out of pretense, but they’d be nuts not to take you. You’ll be back up there befo—,” and he stopped, realization suddenly dawning on him, and with a heaviness he had not quite expected.

She spoke quietly, “It’d be silly, commuting that far every day.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, voice light.

“It’d make more sense to stay there,” she went on, speaking to fill the silence. “Then I could really spend my time immersed in the town, the lifestyle, the work. I’d get the most out of the apprenticeship this way. I think it might be what I really need.”

He pressed the heel of his palm over his brow, feeling like the world was very small and far away. “No, sure, that’s smart. When, um,” he coughed, “when would you move?”

“I haven’t got the job yet—,”

“You will,” he said, and this time he did not stammer, and did not hesitate. He smiled, instead, warm and encouraging. “I know you will.” He cleared his throat, “Listen, I’m about to get on the elevator, but let me buy you a congratulatory drink? Maybe next weekend? I don’t—I’m not sure about Cath—or maybe if Dais—,” he stopped and took a deep calming breath. “I mean, it might just be us, but if—,”

“Um, can I let you know later?” she interrupted, the cheer in her words a little too positive.

“Sure. Just,” and he shook his head, eyes closed, “just call me.”

“I will,” she promised, in a way that made him wonder suddenly, chest seized with a funny kind of panic, that she never would. But before he could think of something else to say, something to make it better, something to make her laugh like he’d always been able to before, she was saying her goodbyes, and he found himself stammering back without thinking.

He turned the phone off, putting it in his pocket, and stepped into the open waiting elevator. Dropping the mobile back into the pocket of his shorts, he pressed both palms over his eyes, gritting his teeth, before pressing the button to his floor and slumping against the wall, eyes still closed. The elevator opened again a moment later, and he and moved through the corridor from memory, opening his eyes only when he knew he was steps away from his own door.

That was when he saw her.

She was standing in front of his apartment, and she had been waiting for him, wearing that plain gold wedding band, the one someone else had given her, on a pale finger. Her eyes were watery, her smile thin and afraid.

“Hi,” she whispered.

He stopped, unable to breathe. “Hi.”


	19. I’ll take you back where you belong

After the conductor’s announcement of the upcoming station, Mimi sat up straighter in her seat, tucked in with jackets and bags all around her. Glancing at her watch, she closed her laptop and slid it back inside its protective satchel, lifting the tray attached to the back of the seat in front of her. Stifling a yawn, she checked her luggage and sat back once she’d reviewed everything was in its place, tapping her fingers on the armrest to wait.

It had not been a particularly blissful month, though the recent seasonal rush at the catering shop had come to a relative end and she was no longer seeing dancing appetizers and animated desserts parading through her mind each time she closed her eyes anymore. She wouldn’t have minded the chaos normally, and sometimes she even appreciated the constant stream of work and the distraction it brought. But too often it set her into hyperactive distressed mode, and that was not a pleasant state to be.

The past two days had been a brief respite, even if a restaurateur conference was technically work-related, too. She attended every year it was offered, despite the time and travel expense, because it was a strategic avenue into promoting her own business and doing a little bit of investigating on the newest kitchen gadgets, business practices, and rising stars in the catering world.

Daisuke seemed to consider it a form of entrepreneurial espionage, but Mimi had always thought it more collegial. She’d been right: the year she had reluctantly allowed him to attend in her place had resulted in a very curt letter from the conference organizers requesting that he be discouraged from future meetings. (Evidently, he had been frightening the other vendors with his constant challenges to cook-offs with anyone who so much as blinked near him.) The letter included a petition signed by nearly two-thirds of the conference’s attendees in support of his banishment, which Daisuke wrote off as jealousy, noting he had won many of the cook-offs and the losers were just sore about being inferior chefs.

Without bothering to correct his inflated sense of self-worth—a lost cause if there ever were one—Mimi had spent every conference since that disaster carefully worming her way back into the organizers’ good graces, and this year it finally paid off, resulting in several key meetings with potential suppliers, collaborators, and partners for future projects. She was pleased with the turn out, and it had been nice to spend time with her parents. Her hometown was conveniently located only a few blocks from the conference’s location this year and she had been able to spend the weekend at home with her mother’s exquisite home cooking and her father’s endless doting. She’d had a lot to talk to them about, worries that seemed to haunt her.

Mind preoccupied with these thoughts now, she glanced out the window of the train, patience strained and anxiety rising. She rehearsed her response for the umpteenth time in her head, planning each word and phrase, going over every implicit meaning any sentence could imply and wondering if this was even the right decision at all.

And maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe the right decision was the safe one, not the one that would pull her out of everything she knew and hurtling towards the unknown.

She was pulled abruptly from these musings when the conductor signaled the approaching station. Gathering her bags quickly, Mimi struggled out into the aisle and wiggled her way to the nearest compartment doors, queuing in the line that had already formed by other disembarking passengers. The train puttered to a squeaky halt at last, and she bustled her way onto the platform, body tense and stiff in the focused, quick escape from the crowds. Climbing the stairs to the main station level, she hurriedly walked along with the other quick-footed travelers to emerge, at last, on the ground floor.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows in the large atrium of the station’s entrance and ticket area. Mimi allowed herself only a moment to breathe with relief at having survived the dash from the heavily packed platform to this brief respite, even if here too the throngs were still present. Gripping the handles of her luggage tighter, she slowed her pace a little and made her way to the waiting area near the station’s street exit, eyes scanning the seats for a familiar face.

It wasn’t as though she were trying to avoid him, but she had to admit, if only to herself, that she was doing little to match his efforts in rescheduling each failed meeting. Always, somehow or another, something had come up, until at last she couldn’t really burrow underground any further, and she was stuck promising off-hand in a distracted rush, without properly reviewing the question he’d asked her in the text he’d sent a week before, that she would be free for only one evening in the following weeks, and that evening had happened to be the day she would return from the conference. She was taken aback by the enthusiasm with which he’d accepted the arranged time, and more so when he offered to meet her at the station, which was on his way from work. Given that she had luggage to carry, she decided a ride home was something she shouldn’t excuse away.

Of course, this was what she had reasoned with early on, but as the day approached, she knew the panic would make her try to find a way out. It was cowardly, she knew, but she also knew she didn’t trust herself around him, and couldn’t yet. Too many things had changed for her to be comfortable yet, as friends.

She spotted him, finally, in the last row of benches by the doors, in the end seat. He was slumped over with his elbow on the side armrest, head bowed low over his chest so his chin dropped forward, eyes closed. He’d come straight from work, dressed in a modest and plain shirt, argyle sweater vest, beige trousers, and complementing blue necktie, but he’d clearly been asleep for a long time in this awkward position, for his clothes had become deeply crumpled at the creases.

Smiling, she let her bags down carefully on the floor at her feet, then climbed onto the bench beside him, sitting just as close as she dared for now. Then she placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning in a little further to whisper, “Jou, wake up.”

She did not have to speak loudly, for he was used to being awakened at the moment’s notice for those long nights at the hospital. But that still didn’t mean that he woke with anything like grace, and instead he gave a start, eyeglasses slipping from his pointed nose and dropping into his lap.

She waited until he had fixed the glasses back around his ears and run a twitching hand through newly cut hair, the style much shorter and thinner than it had been the last time they’d met. Her eyes softened and she smiled, amused. “Another late night, Dr. Kido?” she asked in a teasing air.

The blush was bright on his pale face, and he shuffled his feet, sitting straighter. “Caught me.”

“It’s not exactly a detective novel,” said Mimi with a grin. She tucked her chin into a small palm and narrowed her eyes in a knowing way. “You’ve always got late nights.”

He shrugged, sheepish, and then his tiny smile disappeared. He stared at the ground, hands in fists on his knees. “I’m sorry for how many there were.”

Before he could blink, her hand had slipped forward and pressed gently over his thin mouth. “No apologies,” she said in a determined manner. “We agreed, remember?”

He closed his fingers around hers, pulling her hand away but still holding on. “A part of me will always be sorry, Mimi.”

“Jou—,”

“And if you think I’m not going to worry about what I could hav—,”

“Jou,” she interrupted firmly, clutching his hand. “Don’t. Please.”

“I can’t help it,” he said, hating the helplessness that came with this kind of honesty.

She withdrew her hands, pulling them into a tangled knot in her lap. Chewing her bottom lip, she nodded, as though that were the only thing she could do to accept the intent of his words without risking a response of her own. They settled into an awkward silence, a linger tension spreading between them, pushing apart what was already undone.

But it hadn’t been for nothing.

She fixed him a serious look then to see if he could understand that. He was frowning at a point somewhere past her shoulder, however, and did not immediately notice the way she gazed at him so steadily. When he did, he gave another small start, confused and suddenly bashful.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned. “Are you tired? It was a long train ride. If you’d rather go home right away, we could postpone until—,”

She shook her head and laughed. “No, I’m fine,” she promised. Then she leaned forward and took a hold of his collar, thumb smoothing out the wrinkles at the buttons before settling around the knot of his pale blue tie. The silk was delicate under her fingertips, the stitching tight and tiny. “I think you napped on your tie. It’s all wrinkly.” She hesitated, the pads of her fingers hovering over the knot. She looked at him with an inquisitive eyebrow, and he nodded.

Out of habit, her hands moving without her really wiling them to because they had done this so many times already, she undid the silken tie and carefully redid the knot. It was a clean and smooth process, methodical and focused, the way she would be towards anything of careful creation, like so much of her own work. But this time she was much slower, moving and twisting the accessory with barely the slightest touch, prolonging the moment as much as possible, like she knew this would be the last time.

When she was finished, she pulled on the necktie with a feeble tug, clutching the fabric tightly in a trembling hand. “How are you going to do this by yourself?” she whispered, thinking aloud.

“I know how to do my own ties,” he reminded, smile on his lips. “Even if I do them badly.”

Her mouth quivered, and she continued as though she hadn’t heard him, which was likely the case. “You always do it wrong. And I have to do it for you. And then you make me late so I have to do it for you the night before and leave it ready for the morning. And then you mess it up because you’re always rushing and stressing me out. And then—,”

He padded his shoulders, hoping to stop the tears from pooling in her wide, round eyes. “It’s not your fault I can’t make my own ties,” he offered in consolation, or at least what he thought was consolation in his mind. “I was the one rushing and messing it up. You were just trying to help.”

She sniffed, returning her hands to her lap. “Sometimes I think I didn’t help much at all.”

“You did,” he said, earnest. “More than you could realize.”

But she shook her head, nose scrunched up in dismay. “I don’t think you’re looking back on it the right way. I always had my head up in the clouds, always needed attention, always had to make a big mess of things.” She paused in a bout of clarity. “I suppose most of that is still true.”

His smile was kind. “Not all of it.” When the teasing elicited no response, he softened his tone. He rubbed his nose, adjusting his glasses with a fidgeting nervousness, hands clammy. “You didn’t just have your head up in the clouds all the time, Mimi. You pulled me off the earth with you, whenever I felt the weight of everything around me. I’ll always be grateful for that, even for the times I was too resentful to realize how much it meant.”

Her eyes were watery, but the tears didn’t spill this time. She smiled thinly. “I can say I resented you for pushing me so much,” she admitted, “but I didn’t all the time. I don’t think I would have gone to the interview if you hadn’t.”

But this time he was firm, shaking his head. “No, Mimi. You did that interview all on your own. You are realizing your wishes your own way. That’s what makes it so important.”

“You don’t have to be humble, Jou. It’s a compliment—,”

“Well, I don’t want it,” he interrupted, serious. “You shouldn’t discredit yourself in all this, Mimi. You’re the one taking charge, making the decisions. This is entirely for you, and it should be.”

“But that’s the thing, Jou,” she said quietly. “I’m not good at making decisions for myself. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”

He smiled widely. “Yes, it does. You just can’t see it yet. But you will.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “What else do you think makes you so beautiful?”

She held her breath, hazel eyes wide.

“You’re much braver than you think you are,” said Jou. “I’ll look forward to seeing what you decide next.” He hesitated, “If you’ll let me.”

She sighed deeply, glancing away. Her fingers laced together in thought, tongue running over her lip. “It’s just…difficult for me.” She stole a look in his direction, studying the contemplative expression on his face. “I want to be at that point, but right now…,” and she shrugged, wordless. “I’m trying to do things on my own for now. I want to see if I can. I’ve let Daisuke have a lot more control over the shop, even if it’s getting to his head.” She smiled at the thought, amused. Then she took a deep breath and continued. “I mean, I know I can’t do everything myself. I’ve talked to my parents about it all, and with Michael about maybe sharing an apartment because of the rent fixing in his city. But everything else, I want to be on my own.” She hesitated, “I can’t—I don’t want something here that will…that might—,”

“Tie you down?” he filled in with a soft voice. When she didn’t answer, he figured he had guessed correctly, and he let the moment stretch as he concentrated on his response. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he promised. “No one should. You’re not the kind of person who should be. And if someone—,” he winced, biting his lip, and corrected himself, “something seems like it will, then you need to be careful in your choices. But, Mimi, it’s not always the wrong thing, to have a home to come back to when the wandering gets weary.”

“Is that what you want to be?” she asked after a moment, looking at him.

“I will be,” he said, “the way Daisuke is, and Miyako, and Michael, and—and the others, too. We’re all your home.”

She was quiet, gaze lowered to a spot somewhere below his chin. A moment later, she had reached out to fix his tie, adjusting the knot one more time and patting the creases down tenderly. “I know you all are. But if it takes me a while to get used to it—,”

“We’re not going anywhere,” he answered the worry for her.

She let her hand rest against his chest in a manner so intimate it felt as though they were the only two people in the station. “I wish—,” she started to say, but he shook his head, covering her hand tightly and returning it to her knee before letting go. He did not say anything else, but there was no need to, for they understood one another clearly for the first time in far too long.

Jou cleared his throat after a long moment, glancing about the atrium. “Are you still hungry?”

She shook her head. “I’m a bit tired, actually,” she confessed. “I know I said I’d have the evening free, but I think I just want to go home and sleep.”

“Can I take you?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to accept, and then pressed her lips together and smiled. “Next time.”

He nodded, hiding his disappointment better than he would have been able to before. “All right. Thanks for talking with me. I was worried that maybe you felt—maybe we might not be able to anymore, but—and I know it won’t be like this all the time—I’m glad we could even for a little bit.”

“Me, too,” she said, and she meant it.

Jou stood to help her gather her luggage once more, following her to the street where he hailed her a taxi and stood on the sidewalk for a while longer after she’d gone. The spring sun was beginning to set around the buildings before them, and it was only when the dying light peered around the glass windows of the bank opposite, shining into his eyeline, that he blinked the moisture quickly from his eyes, rubbing his face, and hurriedly resumed the long walk home.

He was so deeply invested in his own thoughts, head bowed as he strode along the sidewalk, that it took the young man attempting to catch his attention a few tries at calling out his name for Jou to finally realize the voice was coming from outside his own head. He jumped in surprise when he saw Yamato waving from across the street at the next traffic light, only a few blocks away from his apartment. It was a busy street with lots of foot traffic for the shops and cafés that lined the avenue, so Jou had to take a moment to focus his gaze on the tall blond as he approached. He waited with an apologetic grin as Yamato pushed against the crowd to reach him, dressed in dark slacks and a heavy long coat that did not match the pleasant temperature of the seasonably warm evening.

“Sorry,” said Jou once Yamato was in earshot. “I wasn’t listening.”

Yamato shrugged it off easily, hands digging into the pockets of his jacket. “Don’t worry about it. Everything all right? You looked pretty serious.”

Jou nodded, embarrassed at having caused his friend any undue concern. “It’s fine. A long day between shifts at work, that’s all.” He observed the nervous twitch at the corner of the blond’s startlingly blue eyes and raised a curious eyebrow. “Are _you_ all right?”

“Fine, fine,” repeated Yamato in a way that was entirely unbelievable.

Jou widened his eyes a little to signal his lack of acceptance of his friend’s words, and the latter sighed, hunching his shoulders.

“All right,” he admitted, “I’m just on my way to—to meet someone.” He chewed his lip, “I’m not particularly looking forward to it.”

Jou frowned a little, deducting quickly. “An ex-someone?”

Yamato’s scowl answered for him, and despite the situation the young doctor smiled.

“I see. If it helps any, I just came from meeting my ex-someone, so this is pretty serendipitous.”

His friend looked surprised, distracted from his own thoughts at last. “Oh. I didn’t realize—,” he stammered, “I mean, I’d heard—I thought you two had tried to maybe work things out?”

Jou shook his head. “It wasn’t the right thing to do. We’ve been working on being friends again. That’s the tricky part.”

His sigh was low and long. “Yeah, it is.” He paused, glancing at the bespectacled man before him as though weighing the options of speaking his mind on so delicate and personal a subject. “How did you know—I mean, how did you decide that…that being friends was better?”

Jou’s instinct was to say it was a choice decided for him, but he knew that wasn’t entirely true, either. He thought carefully on his response, admitting at last, “When I realized I couldn’t be her solid ground, that no one should be.” He explained further, “She should be her own, and seeing her find it was more important to me than being the person to lead her there.”

Yamato stared at him blankly, then shook his head in dismay. “You’re annoyingly mature, Kido.”

Jou laughed. “We’re all adults here.”

“Oh, there’s a difference,” insisted Yamato in a wry voice. He cleared his throat, nodding again. “Anyway, I should go.”

“Good luck,” said Jou with an honest smile, and Yamato was suddenly grateful they’d run into each other, more so than he would admit to anyone else.

He waved the doctor off, then drew in his breath and steeled his nerves, entering the coffee shop at the following corner. He knew she’d already be there, at the usual table, but what he hadn’t expected was how powerful nostalgia could be, what it really did to him to see her bent over the table, pouring over her open sketchbook, pencil balanced between nimble fingers and chin resting on her palm, eyes intently studying the page before her. How many times had he seen her like that, before he ever knew her name? He swallowed the instinct to turn around and walk out, choosing instead to press forward with as much nonchalance as he could without revealing everything that clutched and tore inside.

Whatever Yamato thought himself to be, or imagined himself to be, rather, he knew he was not flighty, spontaneous, or impulsive. He did things deliberately, seriously, and with more caution than his bright blue eyes might otherwise suggest. But he was always more careful with his words than with his thoughts, and the amount of energy it took to control the former without betraying the latter was more than he could handle at times. He hated being like this. He couldn’t stand any of it. He wished he was like Taichi, reckless but passionate, or as earnestly determined as Takeru. He’d even settle for mechanically logical, the way Koushiro tended to be at his worst. But Yamato was none of these things, or at least not exclusively. He couldn’t divorce his feelings from each other, separate responses for the right occasions, consider the ways in which emotions bent across the spectrum without breaking and falling apart. It exhausted him enough to keep his heart under his sleeve than on it, and yet, for her, he’d never had to hide it before.

Now, however, and since, he’d done it so often, she was sliding into that strata of friends from whom he’d learned to shield himself. It wasn’t exactly hiding, and it wasn’t a natural place for her to be. But he hadn’t learned yet where to put her, going along with the motions in those times they’d shared the same spaces. Worse yet, he knew exactly why it never felt right. But to admit it would be to tell Taichi and Takeru they were correct, and that was another trap he actively avoided.

This was why he hadn’t mentioned this meeting with either of the men. He knew what they’d say, and he also knew they’d try to take credit for putting the thought in Yamato’s head in the first place. Neither was true, however. Sora was the one who had reached out to him, not exactly suddenly, but not exactly friendlily, either. Over the course of the past month, they’d reached the point of sharing daily emails that never contained anything personal, aside from the occasional mutual teasing over their dimwitted best friend, but always a few steps away from being the way it used to be before. He was grateful they had even been able to reach this plateau, but it stretched endlessly ahead of him, dim with any kind of future, and he was half the mind to stop accepting even these when she’d proposed to meet for a serious talk. Yamato hadn’t been sure what to make of the invitation to coffee, least of all here, but it had been so long that he went against his better judgment and accepted.

Looking at her now, however, he wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into, and he wished he’d channeled more of Koushiro in the initial correspondence. Was this what happened when once took up Taichi’s example and plummeted head first into insanity?

He shuddered. God, he hoped not.

Taking a deep, even breath, Yamato approached her table, clearing his throat softly. “Hi.”

She looked up with vacant eyes. He knew that expression at once. She only appeared that way when she was completely lost in another inspirational design in her imagination, one that had not yet quite formed completely. Indeed, it took her several blinks to realize where she was and who he was, too, and when she did, she sat up straight, a dark blush flooding her cheeks.

She gestured to the seat across from her at the table. “Please,” she said.

The politeness was awkward, more so because of who they were. But he did not draw attention to it, settling himself silently into the chair and waiting for her to close the sketchbook and place the pencil down on the table. She pulled her lukewarm coffee mug closer to her, bent over as she clutched the cup in her hands.

“How are you?” she asked after a moment.

But he shook his head. “Let’s not be those kinds of friends, please.”

Her blush faded, eyes narrowing slightly. Instead, she nodded. “No, you’re right. Let’s not.”

He looked around the nearly empty café, noting the empty tables around them. The barista was someone he did not recognize, and the patrons were unfamiliar as well. He’d once known these people by name, but he hadn’t returned here since they’d broken up, and he was momentarily caught off guard by how quickly things could change. Was that another sign, he wondered. Was this something he should take as an omen? What was he supposed to hold on to then, if not even this?

Brow furrowed, he returned his gaze to her sternly. “Why’d you pick this place?” he asked, voice flat.

Her gaze was steady, unblinking. “Guess.”

But Yamato shook his head, fierce. “No. I’ve done enough guessing. I’ve spent months trying to, Sora. I can’t anymore. I’m done. You’re just going to have to tell me.”

Her eyes lowered, hands cupping the coffee cup. “Because this was where we started,” she said softly. “So this is where it has to end.”

His chest swallowed itself into an empty vacuum. Tearing his eyes away from her, he stared out the window of the shop, blue eyes wide, hearing nothing else but the sound of his heart beating.

Of course, she would go right for the point of the conversation, no waiting, no idling, no pretext.

He wished she hadn’t, wished she could be different, wished she were someone else entirely.

And yet, strangely, she never could be, not to him.

It took him a moment longer to realize she was still talking, and it was every last bit of strength he had left to force his ears to open again, to let her speak, as he struggled to remember how to breathe.

“I’ve been lying to you,” she was saying now.

“What?” he asked, hoarse, dazed.

“I haven’t been telling you the truth,” she said again. “I haven’t since the beginning, or somewhere near it. And that has to end, because it’s not fair. I should have told you from the start and let you decide. I shouldn’t have done it for you.”

He couldn’t understand, mind thick and sticky, lost in a fog. “Done what?”

“Left,” she whispered. For the first time, he saw her eyes water, turning red, and yet her voice remained still so rational, so focused, so even. “Left you.”

He breathed heavily, struggling to focus. “I thought…you said that—what—why are you now—?”

“Last night, Taichi said something to me that I needed to hear,” she answered simply. Then she shrugged. “Or maybe I wasn’t willing to hear it until now, because I’m stupid.”

“No,” he interrupted at once, on instinct. “You’re not stupid, Sora.”

“I do stupid things.”

“We all do,” he said.

“But even when I do,” she murmured, eyes glazing over as though thinking aloud, “you don’t care. You never did. You let me be dumb, and stupid, and not quite perfect. It’s like you found out all my secrets before I ever knew I had any.”

Yamato closed his eyes, unsure if he could listen to any more of this. “Sora—,”

“But there’s one you don’t know,” she went on.

He stood up suddenly, knees hitting the table. Ignoring the flashes of pain, he shook his head, trying to look everywhere but at her. He needed a minute to sort things out, to understand, but he couldn’t here, he had to step outside—step away for just a—

But then her hand darted out, latching onto his wrist. “You can’t leave without knowing, please.”

“Keep your secrets, Sora,” he interrupted. “They’re yours for a reason.”

“But I don’t want them,” she blurted out at last. “They’re not worth keeping, not if—not if they keep me from you.”

He stopped, opening his eyes wide, to look at her. She was standing now, having risen from the chair in her hurry to grab for his arm when he’d tried to leave, and now she straightened and released his wrist, bringing her arms stiffly to her sides. She held herself awkwardly, uncertain, too raw for her own liking, but he saw none of that. And he heard nothing around them, nothing but that still, stupid, beating heart rattling in his head.

Was this really what a heartbeat felt like?

Did his move this way, had it always, and like this—restless and pounding, breathless and stirring?

Or was it only for her?

When she did speak, it was frail and raw, in a voice he had never heard her use before because she never had with anyone else, or would. It was only for him. “I can’t have children,” she said, staring at him calmly. Her eyes were clear, every word a delicate turn down a path they hadn’t been before. “I didn’t want you to know because I was afraid that you—,” she held her breath, shaking her head, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “You don’t know what that feels like, to know I can’t give you a family.”

He moved before he knew he had.

Taking her face in his hands, lips to her forehead, he said, “Then I’ll give you one. I’ll give you me.”


	20. And this will be our favorite song

The ringing began like a faint ache echoing in the back of his head. It took him a moment to realize the sound was originating elsewhere, and that it in fact had a pattern with meaning. It was a while more before he figured out what the meaning was, and still yet a few seconds after that to respond. And thus it was well past the seventh ring that his sore, stiff fingers fumbled for the old-fashioned flip mobile, bringing the phone at last to his ear.

“Hey, it’s…” and he paused heavily, as though uncertain, “…Takeru?”

And despite his current slow-on-the-uptake mode of existence, he was not quite gone enough to realize she wasn’t in the mood to humor him. “I hope so, because that’s who I’m looking for,” said Sora. “You sound awful. Are you still getting those migraines?”

“No,” yawned Takeru. “Just work piling up. Late nights, rushed deadlines, mild psychological workplace trauma. You know, journalism.”

“Sounds like a healthy environment.”

“They’re bringing in a court-appointed therapist because none of us will talk to each other otherwise.”

Sora gave a small cough, masking a snort of laughter. “Best of luck on that.”

“Thanks. How can I help you?”

Her voice hardened a little, though he knew her better than to mistake himself as the cause. “Have you talked to Taichi recently?”

Out of instinct, Takeru shook his wrist so the watch he wore slid forward with its face looking up. “What’re we talking about when we talk about recent?”

“Just recently. I thought you sometimes see him for lunch, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I have started going to the catering shop some weekdays. Maybe he’ll come today. I was planning to; there’s some big dinner thing Daisuke’s planning.”

But Sora was already speaking over him, “I don’t know. I asked Koushiro and he said the same thing, but that he hadn’t heard from Taichi.”

Takeru frowned to himself, trying to remember the last they’d spoken. “Maybe he’s stuck at work then?”

“No, he doesn’t work on Fridays, remember? His project’s hired him from Sunday to Thursday.”

But still Takeru wasn’t worried. “I’m sure he’s fine, Sora. Besides, he’s never been the most punctual or timely about messaging, has he?”

“Yeah,” she admitted after a moment, “you’re right. I just—your brother thinks he’s been avoiding people lately, and now it’s like he’s just disappeared.”

Takeru was dismissive. “Yamato just likes to make a fuss out of nothing.”

She sighed, “Well, fuss or not, could you kindly aim that investigative journalist instinct of yours at getting Tai to call me back? It’s important.”

Amused, Takeru promised he would and placed the phone back on the table. But he had no more than two seconds to return to the piece he had been editing on his computer when the mobile buzzed again. Sighing, he turned the phone over to check the incoming text message, eyebrow raising when he saw Yamato’s name flashing.

**_Have you seen Taichi?_ **

Takeru picked up the phone to compose his response, smirking. **_Sora? Is this you?_**

**_I’m trying to track him down and I can’t get a hold of him. Do you know where he is?_ **

**_Sora, why do you have Yamato’s phone?_ **

**_I really need to talk to him._ **

Pouting when Yamato still wouldn’t react to his joke, he changed the subject. **_I’m telling Dad you’re neglecting me for your friends again._**

His brother was unaffected, writing back at once. **_Get him to call me back._**

**_I can’t tell Dad what to do._ **

Yamato did not respond, which Takeru had long since learned was his brother’s way of communicating both his grave disapproval of humorous comebacks to serious situations and his insistence on being obeyed about something he wanted. (In this way, Takeru always thought Yamato would have been a ruthless dictator.) But there was no point in getting back to work now that his curiosity has been piqued, and he wasn’t particularly moved by the throes of passion for his current assigned project anyway. So, taking it upon himself to leave for lunch early, he shut the computer off after saving the files, grabbed a light jacket, and headed out the door with phone in hand.

His first act was to call Hikari. Her voice was muffled when she answered after a few rings, and he realized with a guilty wince what time it was for her. “Ah, sorry, sorry,” he said at once, interrupting her frenzied greeting.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said, speaking hurriedly. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Are you sure you can talk?”

There was more shuffling, and he took advantage of her distraction to quickly dash across the street at the following stoplight. She seemed a little calmer when she spoke again, assuring him she was fine. “But I won’t be able to stay long. Nap time’s over in a few more minutes.”

“This will be quick,” said Takeru. “I’m looking for Taichi. Know where I can find him?”

“Right, it’s his day off, isn’t it?”

“Lucky bastard.”

Tsking him for the language, the younger Yagami sibling added, “Well, he’s supposed to be over at ours for dinner later tonight. Do you want to speak to him then, or is that not soon enough?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a law against two or more blond men congregating in the same apartment.”

Hikari giggled, far more receptive to jokes than either of the two he’d spoken to earlier. “Willis doesn’t care about that. He likes you.”

“Then tell him to respond to the nude photos I keep sending, will you?”

“I’m so glad you haven’t changed since high school,” she laughed.

“We all have purposes in life.”

“And yours is to be Peter Pan?”

“Exactly. Mine is to keep the light on in the window in my little hut on Neverland. You should drop by some time.”

“Mm-hm,” said Hikari, smiling through her words. “Sorry I can’t help more with Taichi. Is it really important? I can pass a message on if you don’t mind waiting until tonight.”

“It’s not for me, it’s Sora and Yamato. They’ve been pestering me trying to get a hold of him for something.”

He could hear the curiosity in her voice, imagining her eyebrows rising to her hairline. “Oh, really?”

“The terrible twosome is back at it, so it would seem.”

“Don’t call them that!”

“Well, between you and me, there’s reason for—,” but he was interrupted by a sudden high pitched screech that nearly made him drop the phone, the cry echoing through the line. He winced, tenderly returning the mobile to his ear to hear more rustling as the sounds of small, miniature voices squeaking for attention distracted her. Takeru had to bite back a sigh, admiring how Hikari’s ability for tolerating small children seemed to exceed that of the average person’s and grateful that the only babies he had to deal with on a regular basis were editors and reporters. At least their short tempers and wails for attention were easily sorted, more or less. 

It was while he was waiting for her, though, that he passed a block of stores and restaurants only a few streets from his newspaper’s office, and the memory of the last time he’d been down this particular square block suddenly struck him. Distracted in those thoughts, he almost didn’t catch her when she finally came back on the phone a moment later, speaking in more of a rushed tone. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to get back to class. If you don’t hear from Tai, I’ll tell him tonight to get in touch with one of you.”

“Sounds great. Thanks, ‘Kari,” he said warmly, agreeing to let her know if anything else happened.

Operating completely on a hunch, Takeru pulled up the collar of his thin jacket and strode quickly to the small café, retracing his steps from so many months ago. There were several people already seated near the tables at the windows and outside on the small enclosed terrace, but he ignored them, scanning the cramped, overly toasty interior from outside the window in a not at all subtle manner.

His expression relaxing when he spotted that familiar tuft of unruly brown hair at the back of the café, Takeru slipped his phone back in the pocket of his trousers and pulled off his jacket. He pushed through the doors, moving around the line of patrons at the counter and weaving between tables to reach him.

Taichi, for his part, did not look at all interested in being discovered here or anywhere, barely glancing at the man as he approached. Instead, he said, sipping from his lukewarm coffee cup, “Are you stalking me?”

Takeru dropped his jacket on the table carelessly, waving a dismissive hand at his friend. “Don’t flatter yourself. And call people back once in a while, will you? Everyone’s flipping out about where you’ve been. The parents are getting worried,” he smirked, “and I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Yagami aren’t that happy about unexplained absences either.”

Taichi’s lips spread into a thin, wry smile. “Sora and Yamato sent you?” he asked casually, setting the cup down on its saucer and picking up a crumpled napkin to wipe his mouth.

“Like I said,” Takeru flounced down into the empty chair opposite him at the table, “the parents were worried.” He waited a moment for a response, a reaction, some usual teasing joke at the expense of his over-protective elder brother or their equally hovering and meddling friend, but Taichi said nothing, looking distracted and subdued.

“What are you doing here anyway?”

Taichi gestured to his coffee, but Takeru shook his head.

“Let’s not act like you can’t get a better cup of coffee somewhere else,” he dismissed, and did so unfortunately within earshot of one of the baristas who’d been attending a nearby patron. The young woman glanced at their table with a wounded look, and Takeru turned in his chair to avoid her, guiltily ignoring their surroundings.

Taichi hadn’t noticed the exchange, or at least was too self-involved—in the generous sense—to care about what strangers thought of him. He explained without much conviction, “I don’t know, I just didn’t feel like being at home on a day off. I thought of going to—,” but he cut himself and shook his head. “I wanted some place to think.”

“Think away, by all means,” said Takeru, accepting his answer easily. “I’ll keep you company.”

“Rather you wouldn’t.”

“Said no one ever,” Takeru snorted, smirking. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that I’m a fucking delight to be around.”

Taichi did not bother arguing, and for the second time Takeru was left waiting for the usual joking remark he expected from his friend. When it still did not happen, he amended his tactics, gaze softening as he pulled the jacket off the table and rolled it up in his lap. “I’m going to assume we are back here because of someone related to this establishment.”

Taichi continued turning over the napkin in his hands like a nervous habit, fingers sliding over the smooth metal case. “Oh, yeah, I ended that.”

The writer’s eyes went wide, blinking several times. “On purpose?” he asked, taken aback by the nonchalant tone. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer, and when he still did not after a long moment, Takeru changed the question.

“When?”

The other man shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe a week ago, maybe me?” He grimaced, squinting darkly. “It kind of all blends together after a while.”

But Takeru saw past the morbidly teasing words and to the seriousness underneath. He leaned forward, the exaggerated humor lost from his voice. “Tai, what happened?”

He shook his head, sinking over the table with his head in his hands, napkin clutched in one fist and the heels of his palms digging into his temple. “Don’t make me talk about it, ‘Keru. That’s why I come here, because no one else does, and I don’t have to talk about anything to anyone.”

“Except me.”

“You never count,” muttered Taichi darkly.

Takeru chose not to take the retort to heart, letting the small smile pull at the corner of his lips. “You two seemed to be getting along well.”

Hands went back over his ears, smoothing out the wisps of hair around them. “Yeah, we did. We do,” he corrected. “But some other things…happened.”

“Like what?” the writer prodded, unused to the having to pull information with such difficulty.

He shrugged again, “Past caught up with me.”

Takeru was growing to dislike the direction the conversation was taking, but was stuck on how to respond to this version of Taichi, a version he hadn’t seen before. Even after the would-have-been event of the year before, he hadn’t sunk this low in spirits. For a long moment, the blond wasn’t even sure of what to do, so he said nothing, only waited.

At last, Taichi sat back, lowering his hands to his lap. “Did you know Catherine’s parents are divorced?” The young writer shook his head, but Taichi had already continued without waiting for an answer. “She’s seen her cousins and friends dip in and out of marriages without thinking twice. She wants monogamy and stability, but the whole marriage thing—she says she doesn’t want to do that, that she’d be fine just being together without it. That it’s just not for her. And I told her it was for me. That it _is_ for me, even after all that happened, or maybe because of it. So that was that,” Taichi swallowed a nervous laugh, shaking his head like a bad daydream. “We went back and forth on it for so long, but the arguing and talking never changed anything. I just can’t do relationships for fun, like sport. I want the whole deal. There’s got to be an endgame in it.”

Takeru bit back a smile. “Makes sense.”

The lack of sarcasm in his voice made Taichi raise an eyebrow, surprised, and the younger man pursed his lips. “Well, it does. You’re definitely more suited to the long-term lifestyle, for however you think you played it before.” When the eyebrow rose higher, Takeru shrugged. “I mean, no offense, Tai, but you kind of always did talk a lot of game for someone who doesn’t really have any.”

His grin was sloppy and sheepish, the back of his hand rubbing under his chin. “You’re the prince of flattery, Takaishi.”

“My point is,” continued Takeru, rolling his eyes, “you were always that guy, even before you might have known you were, and no matter how else you tried to dress it up. It’s like how you used to play football, remember? You were never in the game to lose. You had to win; there was no other option. It’s the same every way else, too, for you. You never quit half-way on anything; you go all in.” He paused, thoughtful, choosing his words carefully. “So when the one you wanted to go all in for…didn’t want to anymore,” he shrugged, hesitant, “you took yourself out of the game. And you put yourself somewhere you don’t belong.”

His thumb brushed back and forth, slowly, under the curve of his bottom lip, head bent low. “Why do you think I did that?”

“Did?” repeated Takeru with a knowing glance.

Taichi peered at him between still fingers. “I still do that,” he said, sound less like a question than a statement.

The young blond nodded a little, but had the grace to add, “You’re not the only one. We’re all trying to figure it out in our own way, what to belong to and how.”

“This is different,” said Taichi.

Takeru rested a hand on the table, tapping the countertop with a thoughtful finger. “I think it feels different because you’ve come so close so many times, but even then you realize how much farther you have left.”

“To the endgame?”

He smiled. “You know there isn’t one. I mean, think about, Tai. If there was, if everyone had one, you and I could be related by now.”

Taichi shuddered. “Don’t speak so lightly of such things.”

He rolled his eyes, continuing lightly, “We all lucked out anyway, finding the ones who are good for us in the right way eventually. That doesn’t mean there’s an end, a plateau of normal living that we’ll find if we just work hard enough at it.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table again. “All it really means is there’s never a guarantee of an after. There are only always beginnings, and we don’t ever know what could come then. Knowing’s never been how it works. How can it? The game always keeps playing, doesn’t it?”

Taichi was quiet, keeping his musings to himself. “If you and your homespun philosophies have kept me here deliberately to open up or something stupid, I’m going to give you an end.”

But Takeru waved him off, grinning. “If today’s the day, that’s fine with me. Daisuke’s preparing a big dinner for Mimi’s last event, and I hate to admit it, but he’s a damn good cook—,”

“Her what?” interrupted Taichi at once, lifting his gaze.

Blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You know, since she passed her interviews, she’s taking time off and Daisuke will be overseeing the shop. I’m thinking of following him around for a documentary on how to recede in business, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s actually got a talent for it.” He pouted, “Kind of ruins the whole joke.”

“She accepted?”

_Already?_

“I think so,” said Takeru, slightly alarmed by his asking so many questions on something he was prepared to talk about. “I’m not sure. All Daisuke said was to come by tonight.”

“He didn’t tell me,” accused Taichi, to which the other man simply shrugged, open-palmed, as though unsure what he was being blamed for.

“You’ve been hard to track down lately,” reminded Takeru. He paused, “Like you’re avoiding something.”

“I was,” said Taichi crossly, brow furrowed in a grumpy manner. “I was trying to focus on—,”

“Not being around her, we know, we know,” and Takeru waved his hands dramatically, sighing, as Taichi shut his mouth so quickly he nearly bit through his tongue. The other man didn’t notice, or was being too clever to let it on. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, anyway, with that dinner with Hikari and Willis, right?”

Taichi had already opened his mouth to retaliate to the first remark, but then stopped when he’d heard the rest of the sentence. His expression shifted with a funny look in his dark brown eyes, and once again he picked up the crumpled napkin to smooth over a stiff knee. “Right.” He chewed on the corner of his mouth, curiously lifting his gaze to eye the other carefully. “But I should—I should probably call and let Daisuke or—or someone know, right?”

Takeru smiled. “Right.”

The elder man continued to stare at him, unblinking, until at last the latter gave a start and sat up straight, nose wrinkling. “Hey, I’m in a coffee shop,” he remarked in patronizing astonishment, “I should get a cup of coffee, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should,” snapped Taichi, and the younger blond easily sidestepped a half-hearted warning kick from under the table as he slipped out of the small booth and sauntered to the counter, avoiding as much as he could the still hurt barista from earlier in their talk.

Taichi waited until Takeru was out of earshot before hurriedly pulling out his phone, scrolling through his contacts. He did not expect an answer, not if today really was what the writer had said it was, but he got one anyway, and without having to wait long at all.

“Howdy, stranger,” said Daisuke with a hint of bottled surprise. “What can I do you for?”

He went straight for the point, for the first time in a while. “Hey, I heard there’s something going on tonight?”

The chef confirmed there was, speaking good-naturedly. “Sure is. Just a little dinner thing, bring your own beer and such.”

“And it—it’s for—?”

“Mimi’s leaving, yeah,” said Daisuke, his lilting voice still not missing a beat.

Taichi glanced up at the counter, watching Takeru conversing with one of the staff members over the menu. “Right. Well, I’m not—I’ve got something at my sister’s tonight, but maybe afterwards I could come by.”

“I think she’d like that.”

He held his breath for a minute before asking carefully, “Can I talk to her?”

Daisuke gave a strangled cough. “I mean, in theory, sure, but she’s not here yet. She had a morning client and then had to fill out some paperwork for moving out and stuff.”

He hesitated, trying to keep his voice even. “Oh. She, um, already found a new place and everything?”

If he sounded strange, Daisuke was generous enough to ignore it, replying instead, “Basically. She’s going to sublet with Michael for the first six months, and if after that the internship turns into a real offer, then she’ll get her own place.”

This time, his pause was too heavy to pretend away. “Okay,” he said, distant.

“You know Mimi can’t be by herself, with no one around to pay attention to her,” joked Daisuke in a painfully transparent attempt to liven up the suddenly dipping mood of the conversation. He continued, voice pitching awkwardly, “I wouldn’t—you know, I wouldn’t really think much about it or anything. It’s just a friends kind of thing they have, that’s all.” He hesitated, “I’m pretty sure, anyway. I mean, assuming you can really be friends with blond people. I always thought they were kind of peaky and pale, like soulless aliens with—,”

“What did you say?” interrupted Taichi, snapping from his daze.

Daisuke was too far lost in his rambling to remember quite what he’d meant, but he tried valiantly to pretend he had it all under control. “I said it’s weird being friends with aliens.”

Taichi pressed a hand over his closed eyes, swallowing a long sigh. “Just friends?” he repeated for emphasis, returning the conversation to the correct subject.

Relieved someone knew what was going on, the younger man hurriedly agreed, speech blocky and blunt. “Just friends.”

“Okay,” said Taichi, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Daisuke hesitated, quickly adding as though he knew he didn’t have much time to confess, “Just—you know, if you do come over, don’t tell her I told you.”

His stomach did a funny somersault, squeezing against his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s just been kind of sensitive lately. She knew you were dealing with some stuff, you know, lately, and she didn’t want to bother anybody.”

“You’re saying she doesn’t want to be the center of attention? Are you sure she’s not sick?”

But Daisuke ignored the joke. “I’m saying she’s not sure she’s the center of yours.”

The breath he’d been holding disappeared, and he did not see Takeru returning to their table, or hear the beginnings of the chef’s next words.

“You’re just…you’ve been busy with other things, you know? And it’s not a problem. Things change and all. That’s what usually happens with these kinds of things,” he added, in a way that suddenly brought a rush of words to the tip of Taichi’s frozen tongue, but she still couldn’t speak. Daisuke went on, “But you haven’t been around, and I’m not saying you’re doing it on purpose or anything, but—,”

“I’m not,” he interrupted, grasping for something to promise when nothing else quite made sense.

But Daisuke wouldn’t let him get away with it, not this time.

“Then prove it.”


	21. Come to me with secrets bared

“I was promised food,” was Willis’s greeting.

Mimi, still in the middle of saying hello and still holding onto the handle of the catering shop’s door, channeled the social graces her mother had raised her with and did not let her grin falter even once, beaming at the pair. “There’s plenty to go around,” she told him, amused by the look of relief that passed his glass face. Hikari could barely keep her hand around his arm as he torpedoed through the narrow space his host made, darting into the shop.

Giving up, his girlfriend instead smiled apologetically at Mimi instead. “He really likes food,” she said in what was, in hindsight, not the most intellectual of excuses, but nonetheless pretty accurate. As though sensing this herself, Hikari added with pink cheeks, “And yours in particular. He says he still dreams about the soup you brought over once when my dad was recovering.”

“I’d be happy to teach it to you,” said Mimi, ushering her inside without glancing behind her. She’d been steeling herself not to look since Daisuke first mentioned they’d be coming by when the party had started hours earlier, and now that she hadn’t, she was too busy congratulating herself to listen to the young woman’s response. Realizing Hikari was still speaking, she turned around hastily, hands clasped behind her, and grinned again to make up for having paid attention to nothing else being said. “Just name the time and place, and I’ll come over. We can make a day of it.”

Winking knowingly, Hikari made no attempt to acknowledge Mimi’s misdirected attention. Instead, she peeled off her thin jacket and folded it over her arm, stopping at the two tables that had been pushed together to host all the food and drink laid out for the celebratory dinner. Quite a lot of food was still left to be consumed, even though they had arrived well into the evening and many of the guests had already gone home for the night. Turning her attention back to Mimi, Hikari said with a generous smile, “That would be great. But I guess it might not be possible for a while.”

Mimi waved a dismissive hand, shrugging her shoulders back though her cheeks were blushing a little at the gentle acknowledgement. “Oh, but I’ll be around now and then, on the weekends. I can’t leave this place entirely alone. God knows what would happen.”

They both glanced at the newly named co-owner of the business, who stood in the center of the crowd at the dinner table with his chef’s hat taped to his head in a preemptive move to prevent its loss or relocation to another part of his body, as it tended to do when alcohol was involved.

Hikari coughed to mask a chuckle. “He’ll be fine,” she assured with a good natured giggle, and then paused to add, “It’s Taichi you’re going to have to worry about.”

That hadn’t been what Mimi was expecting, even from his younger sister. “How so?” she managed to ask, sounding squeakier than she would have liked.

She shrugged again, unable to contain her cheeky grin. “Keep him away from something he wants, and he gets to be even more impulsive than usual.”

Mimi opened her mouth but no words came out, for then the door to the shop slammed open, the bell jingling furiously at the force of its opening, and both women looked over to see the subject in question scowling as he finished the sentence he was yelling into the phone at his ear, “—and if you’re still not answering then, don’t blame me for permanently changing all your ringtones to the theme from that show about the shipwrecked people on that stupid island, because I know how much you hate it!”

“See,” said Hikari, while Mimi shut her mouth at once.

Taichi was muttering to himself as he strode towards them, crossing the large open-aired kitchen in only a few long steps. Hands in his pockets, he said gruffly to his sister, “That’s the last time I fall for this ‘Yamato-and-Sora-want-you-to-call-them-back trap. Neither one of them’s answered a single time.”

“They might be busy,” pointed out Hikari.

“Doing what?” demanded Taichi, offended at the very notion that anyone would be too busy to speak with him. His younger sister politely remained silent. The pause stretched into a lengthy one, and no one spoke until he put the pieces together. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” groaned the elder Yagami, slapping a hand over his face. “I thought those days were over.”

“You said you were happy they reconciled,” laughed Hikari.

“Without my permission,” reminded Taichi in a dark tone that led Mimi to conclude they’d had this same argument about the couple in question before.

At this point, Hikari had rolled her eyes too hard to attempt speaking again for fear they would become stuck that way, so she smoothly trailed off. She turned instead to her boyfriend at the buffet table, where Daisuke, having greeted Willis as though they were long lost souls reunited in the most kismet of circumstances, was naming for him each leftover dish, though Willis had already started helping himself to anything he deemed edible, barely waiting or indeed even listening for identification first.

Throughout the siblings’ conversation, Mimi had been carefully inching herself back and out of his line of sight, but now nothing was there between them and she panicked. Just as Taichi opened his mouth to say hello to her, his cheeks slightly red as though regretting the way he’d announced himself to the party, Mimi whirled around on her feet and frantically waved Daisuke over, capturing his attention at last when she snapped her fingers loudly. He pushed around Koushiro, Takeru, and Michael, who had gathered at the dessert table and were currently surveying the rows of delicious fruit pies after having had their fill of the savory foods, and reached her side a moment later, drink in hand. She took the beer bottle before he could stop her, but he was distracted anyway. Instead, he shot a crazed grin at Taichi, who was torn between eyeing with alarm the incredibly quick way Mimi could finish a drink and trying to pry Daisuke’s arms from around his neck when the latter pounced forward for a tipsy hug.

“You did come,” he mumbled into Taichi’s shirt.

He gave the chef a tiny pat on the top of his head, not sure what else to do with his arms. “Sorry for being late,” he said in response, looking directly at Mimi this time.

“That’s okay, you said you would be. We got started without you though,” purred Daisuke.

“I can tell,” said Taichi, recognizing the festive laid back atmosphere of a party on its last few legs.

He regretted being so tardy, but it had taken a while to convince Hikari and Willis to have their scheduled dinner here instead. The latter had loudly objected, claiming to be so hungry he could have eaten one of Hikari’s students, which Taichi wasn’t entirely certain was totally a joke. They’d taken a taxi to the catering shop to be on the safe side, but securing a cab had proven to be another difficult task, prolonging their arrival even further. And through all of this Taichi had been playing phone tag with his best friends only to consistently get no answer from either. He wouldn’t have been irritated by their radio silence any other time, except that a lot had happened today since meeting Takeru earlier that afternoon, and indeed a lot had happened in the past few weeks. He’d realized he wasn’t going to be able to really think things through without either of their more levelheaded advice. And he needed advice, especially now, because he knew something was going to happen today, and he’d known it since he first saw her.

He tried to look at her now from over the top of the chef’s bushy head, but then Daisuke squeezed him so hard he gasped for air. “You do remember that we spoke earlier today, don’t you?” he asked, thrown by the level of affection he was getting from him, as though they hadn’t seen each other in years. To be certain, it had been a while, but he suspected the alcohol was helping along this particular bout of public love, though he did wonder where all this affection had been during their conversation on the phone at the café.

Now, apparently, the words they’d exchanged meant nothing at all as the young man nuzzled his face into Taichi’s neck, whispering huskily, “A lot can happen in a couple of hours.”

“Is that a…promise?” wondered Taichi aloud, causing Mimi to choke on her last gulp.

He released Taichi at last. “I just want you to feel appreciated today, because starting tomorrow there’s gonna be some changes around here.” His voice had risen in octave with each word until he was finally shouting the last few phrases like a threat at the catering staff still left at the party, none of whom felt in any way threatened. If Daisuke sensed this, he did not speak of it, but Taichi was willing to bet that he wasn’t sensing much of anything in his current state of inebriation, except perhaps for his chest, which Daisuke was now groping with a little too much enthusiasm.

Another set of hands appeared around Daisuke’s shoulders, yanking the chef back from an increasingly uncomfortable Taichi. Koushiro flashed his former co-worker a welcoming grin, then turned his attention to Daisuke as he shook him gently, the billowing white hat on his head fluttering with each shake. “Listen, I know Miyako’s out of town, but you have to stop feeling people up.”

“I miss her,” mumbled Daisuke, his bottom lip quivering.

“Try missing her by respecting people’s personal spaces,” offered Koushiro as Taichi smoothed out the wrinkles his friend’s aggressive affection had left in his T-shirt, and Michael and Takeru, balancing cupcakes in either hand, finally joined the group.

Daisuke did not seem appeased by the advice, evidently finding it entirely beside the point. He looked at Mimi with watery, pleading eyes. “She was supposed to be back in time for the party. She said she would.”

“She can’t help a plane being delayed,” Koushiro pointed out, but Mimi intervened, relieved to at least have something to distract her attention with.

Setting the now empty beer bottle down, she looped her arm around Daisuke’s and gave him a friendly nudge in the side. “It’s all right, Daisuke. We’re having a good time anyway, aren’t we? You all are acting like my leaving is for forever, but it’s not. I’m only going to be away on the weekdays, and some weekends, and some full months, and some—,”

Daisuke heaved a shuddering, rattling gasp, as Takeru suggested loudly through a mouthful of frosting, “I don’t think that’s helping.”

 “Maybe we should get some fresh air,” suggested Taichi as he took Daisuke’s other arm and grinned at her from the other side.

Instead, however, Mimi released her friend and gestured at all of the men. “Good idea,” she said. “Go take him for a walk around the block.” And she spun on her heels before anyone could protest against what sounded very much like an order, striding back towards the remaining guests at the dinner tables.

“He always did seem a bit like her pet,” muttered Michael.

“Come on, Daisuke,” said Koushiro in a reassuring tone, steering the man towards the front of the stop as the others followed, Taichi trailing at the end with a doubtful glance behind him.

But before they reached the door, the chef pulled away and threw himself like a lumpy cushion onto one of the armchairs. “Leave me here until she comes back,” he said into the chair.

“And if she never does?” asked Takeru, licking his fingers and crumpling up an empty cupcake wrapper.

Daisuke lifted his head to shoot him the most wounded look of pain, so raw that even the young writer felt apologetic as the other assembled men winced.

“I’m kidding, Daisuke,” he promised with a forced chuckle. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a delayed flight, not the end of the world.”

“I knew letting her go was a bad idea,” he mumbled into his hands.

(“Again with the ‘letting’,” said Koushiro. “What is with the people around here?”)

“It was her brother’s thirtieth birthday,” Michael pointed out. “You didn’t want her to go to a milestone family event?”

“Not without me,” said Daisuke in a sullen voice, sitting up at last. He turned around so he could look at them all from his slumped vantage point. “She didn’t even ask me if I wanted to go. Her whole family was there, and their significant others. All of them, except me.”

Not expecting such a turn of events, or even such an honest confession, the others sat in silence as Daisuke rubbed at his sniffling nose, getting a hold of his tipsy feelings.

“Sometimes it takes a while for people to be comfortable around each other,” said Michael at last, perched on the stool beside the chef’s armchair and looking down at him with empathy. “Sometimes they wait because they don’t know how to ask for what they need.”

“You think she needs me?” asked Daisuke after a heavy pause, peering at the blond man from over the top of the arm of his chair.

Michael smiled kindly. “Yes, I think she does.”

Daisuke studied him through narrowed, unfocused eyes, then gave a short nod. “All right, I take back what I said about you. Mimi can live with you now. I allow it.”

Koushiro opened his mouth to remark on the permission talk again, but Taichi kicked his chair and shook his head, not wanting to spoil the tender moment, though also quite curious to hear more about this living arrangement.

Michael, for his part, only laughed. “Glad to hear it, even if it’s pretty much all settled.”

“Is that why you’re in town, helping her move up?” asked Takeru, turning his attention to the other cupcake he’d brought with him to their seated area.

Michael nodded. “I’ve had to rent a van for all her things, and that’s only half of it. We shipped up some boxes already, and there are more that Miyako’s keeping at her storage unit for a few months.”

“Seems like everything’s taken care of,” said Taichi, speaking up at last.

“More or less,” agreed Michael, taking a sip of his drink and smirking.

Taichi chose to ignore the hint of a tone in his voice, lifting his gaze towards the rear tables once more. Mimi was still chatting with one of her assistants and Hikari, while Willis seemed to be taking the idea of a buffet as a personal challenge, mowing through the leftover pastries with alarming speed. She had her back towards the group at the front, so Taichi couldn’t see her face, but he wasn’t all that bothered about this view either. She had her pulled up in a loose, twisted ponytail, the strands falling messily around the curve of her neck, and over a pale yellow dress she wore the apron he’d long since been accustomed to her donning every time he’d visited here before. It was strange to imagine her without one, strange to imagine this place without her, or even what this year would have been if he hadn’t stepped into this store all those months ago, blank check in hand.

He knew that the last thing he needed was to dive headfirst, eyes closed into something that held no other promises, no guarantees, or anything really but a hunch, a wish, an ache.

He knew this wasn’t what normal people did, or maybe normal people would have already done it by now, even if what he’d been through wasn’t normal anyway, if anything was.

But he also knew what had led him here, and what he’d walked away from to do it.

Distracted by his hesitant musings, Taichi did not notice for a moment that the conversation among the other men had continued without him, a pleasant hum of noise and laughter echoing around the large open room of the store. Daisuke had leaned over now towards the side of the chair where Michael remained seated on his stool, arms crossed. “For a blond guy, you’re not that bad,” he was saying now.

“Careful, he might launch into his alien conspiracy,” warned Taichi with a snort of laughter.

Koushiro raised an eyebrow, “His what?”

“Oh, I need to hear this,” said Takeru, finishing up the last cupcake.

Daisuke waved an aimless hand, feeling sleepy from the large amount of beer he’d consumed since learning of his girlfriend’s unexpected absence. He seemed to have come to terms with it now, settling into the chair to ramble in a squeakily tipsy way, “You’re all so pale. It’s not right. It’s just not right.”

“Well, that explains why I always thought you never liked me,” confessed Michael with a laugh. “My blondness.”

Daisuke scratched his temple, grinning. “I always thought you didn’t like me.”

(“Suddenly this feels like junior high school all over again,” muttered Takeru, squinting lazily at them from the background and earning an agreeing laugh from the others.)

Michael grinned. “Most things just come down to simple miscommunication, don’t they?”

Daisuke nodded emphatically, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair to signal the enthusiasm of his agreement, unaware of the way the other man had seemed to lean closer with each word. “True, true.”

Michael hesitated. “So we should always be clear how we feel.”

“Well, sure, that’s—,” but then he stopped, because that was when Michael, moving so smoothly no one could predict it, dipped suddenly towards him and pressed his lips gently to his.

Koushiro’s eyes went wide; Takeru had to turn with a fist in his mouth to keep from laughing; and Taichi smacked a hand over his face in sudden humiliation at having ever been put out by how close the man was to Mimi.

It lasted less than a second, but Michael, after pulling back, still appeared somewhat sheepish afterwards. Daisuke opened and closed his mouth a few times, wordless, which only made Michael more nervous. He poked the other man in the chest with a pale finger, shaking his blond head. “You can’t say I never liked you now.”

“Wait,” said Daisuke at last, stuttering, “you mean—all this time—but you never even talked to me when we first met!”

“Because I was avoiding you,” admitted Michael with a grin. “It doesn’t help being Mimi’s best friend, either. She talks enough about feelings for the both of us, always has. But no, I didn’t talk to you because I didn’t like you.” He smiled widely, “You made me nervous, and I’m not one to be nervous easily.”

“Oh,” said Daisuke, dumbfounded.

Michael chuckled again, hoping to break the tension. “Anyway, I know you’re straight, but I hope you’ll forgive me for—,”

“No, no,” protested Daisuke at once, snapping out his reverie. “I don’t care—I mean, I’m not mad or anything. I’m just, you know, into that,” and he gestured lamely in the direction of the shop’s work computer at the front desk, where the screensaver he’d installed circulated through pictures of a smiling Miyako in various poses.

Instantly, Taichi was grateful the bespectacled girl was not there to witness this moment, knowing she would not in any way be pleased about being referred to as _that_ , even if it was only due to Daisuke’s inability to articulate himself after such a surprising confession. But he was startled out of this silent moment of relief when he heard his name, as Daisuke blurted out in a maniacal rush, voice cracking, “But if anything changes, we do have a list, you know, and Taichi says I’m on his, so maybe you can join that?”

“What the hell, Daisuke?” gaped Taichi, just as Takeru burst into howls of delight and Koushiro recovered his voice.

“That’s not how attraction works, you do know that, right?” he asked, which only made Takeru laugh harder.

Michael appeared as though he were struggling to make sense of the confusing conversation, and he cautiously assured the young chef, “I don’t…need a list, and I’m not expecting anything. I really just figured there wasn’t going to be another chance to tell you. So I kind of had to take it, you know?” And he shrugged, nose wrinkling, “You can’t be all sulky for the rest of the night now, can you?”

“Definitely not,” gasped Takeru in between chuckles, while Koushiro slapped him on the back to help him breathe properly again.

“I don’t know what to do,” admitted Daisuke, looking about with confusion.

Michael chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “I do. I’m getting us a round of drinks.”

“I’ll help,” offered Taichi at once, following the other man as they left the group at the front sitting area. He felt into step with the blond, “You really know how to leave an impression.”

“It’s the blond thing,” he said, pointing to his head with a smirk. They fished out several bottles of beer from the cooler one of the staff had placed by the dessert table, and Michael took out his keychain to start pulling off the metal caps. “Sometimes you need to give the moment a little kick in the pants anyway.”

“I think it worked,” grinned Taichi.

“Oh, I’m not done,” said Michael in a cool tone. He lifted one of the bottles to his lips, taking a long swig. “There’s a couple more kicks on the way, if needed.”

Taichi took the bottle opener from him and began uncapping some of the others. “I think it’s worked. He’s definitely not going to be wallowing about—,”

“Wow, you two really are that thick,” interrupted Michael, astonished blue eyes rounding over the top of his drink. “You realize that attraction isn’t just a list, too, don’t you?”

Taichi opened his mouth, slightly put off at being placed in the same category as Daisuke. But before he could snap something back, Michael had nodded behind him, “Well, then, there she is. What are you waiting for?”

“I—I’m not—,” he stammered, unprepared, and for some reason unable to figure out why preparation was suddenly so important to him. “I’m not waiting.”

“It’s going to look like it when I leave you awkwardly standing here by yourself,” said Michael, which he did precisely in the following moment, easily balancing the other drinks into his hands and striding away with a confidence that was strangely appealing.

Taichi shook himself from this thought, clutching his drink in his hand though still having yet to take a sip. He considered doing so then, when he caught Hikari’s gaze from around Mimi’s turned shoulder, and her small brown eyes seemed to widen in a case of unbridled delight. Wishing she was somewhat more discreet and suddenly realizing how much his family behaved like one another regardless of what they pretended to do otherwise, he put the bottle back down on the table, untouched, and strode forward, tucking himself into their group between the still rambling assistant and his younger sister.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, looking directly into her curious hazel eyes.

“That sounds ominous,” said Mimi, hiding anything like nervousness with a little flip of her hair over her shoulder.

But he saw through the gesture, and he lowered his voice. “Bakery kitchen?” he asked, nodding his chin to the small separate enclave attached to the rear of the store.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised the fresh-faced staff member she’d been speaking with, whose crestfallen face was consoled when Hikari swooped in to offer her company.

Mimi gestured for Taichi to follow her, pushing through the loosely hinged door to the separate pastry kitchen. This area was much messier than the larger assembly room, though Taichi suspected that was the nature of a separate area devoted to creations of flour, sugar, and frosting. He let a finger trail down one of the smudged counters of a steel table, lifting it to see the pad covered in white dust.

“You didn’t make my cake in this place, did you?” he asked, doubtful.

Her back stiffened, taken by surprise at the introductory comment. “That’s what you want to talk about?”

“It’s been on my mind lately,” he admitted.

“Lately?” she repeated, eyebrow arched.

“Well—since I’ve had—since she came back.”

Mimi opened her mouth, brow furrowed, and then the muscles in her face seemed to relax and fall away, her expression perfectly empty. She pressed her lips together. “Oh.”

It took him a moment to realize what she might have been thinking, piecing together this new information with his unusual absence and their lack of interaction in recent weeks, and he panicked, waving his hands at her as though he could physically shoo away the thoughts from her mind. “No, it’s not like that—she came to give me her ring back.” He hesitated, the words sticking to his throat a little as he spoke. “It’s something she felt she had to do in person, you know. Because—because of what had happened before.”

Mimi chewed on the inside of her cheek before nodding at last, shuffling on her feet. “It’s big of you to let her.”

“Kind of didn’t have a choice,” he admitted, sheepish. “She just showed up.”

When he offered no further explanation, Mimi took it upon herself to continue the conversation, glancing about the room for an excuse to look at something else. “So you have your ring back.”

“Right,” he said, as though remembering there was more to the story he had left to tell. “Right, so I had the ring back, and I didn’t—I mean, I thought about it for a while, and then I went to go see—see Catherine.”

She did a funny kind of double take, before stuffing her hands into the pockets of her apron and swallowing a strange laugh. “Right, Catherine.”

“Right, Catherine,” repeated Taichi with confusion, and again a minute lapsed before he realized the implications of this latest announcement, too. “Oh, fuck—no, Mimi—I didn’t—that’s not what happened— _dammit_ ,” he hissed to himself, gritting his teeth.

But she wasn’t listening anymore, had already turned back to the door to walk away from him. “You know, I’m not really in the mood for riddles, so if that’s the way you want to say you’re—,”

He caught her wrist, stopping her. “I’m not,” he said, the earnestness of his tone halting the bitterness of her own. She looked up at him, holding her breath, and he said again, “I’m not.”

“Okay,” she said, knowing nothing else to respond with, but that was enough, and he released her, stepping back to his side of the table between them. She didn’t make another attempt to leave, which he considered a good sign, but couldn’t figure out what to go with next, determined not to make another innuendo go wrong. But his ability to be clear and thoughtful about his words, especially words that came from a place of as much adrenaline as this, had never been finely tuned to be successful, so instead he replaced his previous methods of being bluntly honest with another equally shocking avenue into the world of truth-telling.

“I was there that night,” he admitted suddenly.

She blinked several times. “What are you talking about?”

“Your birthday.” Then he smacked a hand to his temple, drumming his first on the back of his head with a wince. “No, Daisuke’s birthday. I should have been at yours, but that’s something else—just, never mind. I meant,” he took a deep breath, “at Daisuke’s birthday, when they brought him back from the hospital. Remember?”

She shrugged, “Not really. That was months ago. And I’m not still upset about your missing my birthday party.” She paused, “Not very.”

“You should be,” he said, smiling a little.

“Mm-hm,” and she nodded, lips pursed.

He thought of stepping forward towards her again, but she looked so withdrawn and suspicious that he hung back. “That night you gave me a chance to get back in, and I didn’t take it. I’m not sure why I didn’t—well, maybe I think, I _thought_ I was already back in, or that I didn’t need to be in, or that I—,”

“Taichi, what are you talking about?” she demanded, exasperated. “Get back into what?”

“I’m saying I had a really shitty year. A really, _really_ shitty year.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands behind his ear, “So I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to pretend it wasn’t, you know? Acting like things are normal because I’m trying to find normal again. But it’s—it’s just hard, because I don’t think….,” and he stopped, sucking on his bottom lip. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

She had grown more and more still throughout the course of his stumbling speech, and now she shifted nervously on her feet, brow wrinkled with deep creases. Raising her chin a little, she pulled her arms close to her chest, rubbing her elbow absentmindedly. When she spoke at last, the previous hints of frustration were lost, replaced instead by a quiet sincerity, and something like empathy.

“Well,” she began softly, “probably because it’s not real.” He looked at her hard and she faltered a little under his dark brown gaze, offering instead, “Normal’s never existed. We’re trying to find something that’s never been there in the first place. Aren’t we?”

He nodded, neck stiff, “Yeah. But the thing is, I think maybe—maybe the times I didn’t even remember I was looking for anything at all, were with you.”

The silence lingered too long, and he felt it weighing down against his chest, pressing over his ears. She could only stare at him, expression lost, motionless for so long he briefly entertained the idea of her being possessed. Feeling a panic swell up in the back of his mind, he ventured forward cautiously, but when he took a step, she immediately took one back, her face crumbling.

Shaking her head, Mimi whispered, “I’m not your saving grace.”

“That’s not what I want,” said Taichi.

“And I’m not your normal.”

He said nothing, and she closed her lips tightly, squeezing her arms over her chest. “I had a hard year, too, you know. And I’m just now learning how to do for myself, and how not to have to be anything for anyone else first. You can’t just assign me a role in your story without—,”

“Okay,” he interrupted. “I know.”

Neither said anything, and Mimi blinked quickly, feeling the corners of her eyes prickling. She wanted to explain herself, but she couldn’t, her tongue thick and frozen.

So he spoke first. “Listen, I’m not saying any of that. I’m just trying to say,” and he paused between each word carefully, “that normal or not, you were there from the start. And I think it means something. I’m saying that it means something to me.”

Mimi nodded stiffly, dropping her gaze so she could keep her nerves calm. Rubbing her nose quickly, she said, “Well, good. Friends are supposed to mean something, otherwise we wouldn’t be—wouldn’t be friends, right?”

He looked at her with something like disbelief and then gave a hollow chuckle. “You’re really making me work for this, aren’t you?” he asked, stepping around the steel table again towards her.

This time she didn’t step back, holding her ground even as she eyed his unexpectedly confident approach. “Work for what?” she demanded at once, apprehensive, then added quickly, as though realizing this was the most opportune moment to stress her uniqueness, “You’re saying I’m not worth the work?”

“So being your friend is work?”

“Yes,” she said slowly with suspicion, like she expected him to break out into song or dance or something else equally uncharacteristic, or at least more so than the suddenly determined glint in his dark brown eyes. He came to a stop in front of her, and still she didn’t budge, face scrunched up as she studied him closely. By this time her frown lines so deep they seemed etched into her small face. “Isn’t that what we are?”

“Friends?”

“Why are you just repeating everything I say?”

“Annoyed?”

“ _Yes_ —,”

“Me, too,” he said, and she closed her mouth, startled by the swiftness with which he’d interrupted her, unused to anyone challenging her like that. “Because I don’t think we’re friends anymore, and I don’t like you talking about us like we are.”

“So then what are we?” she asked, and his brow crinkled, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“I don’t know,” he said. Her lips parted, quivering with the desperation to voice an opinion, but his thumb pressed over them, shaking his head. His fingers stretched towards the loose strands of hair over her forehead, tracing the frame of her face. “I can’t figure out what we are.”

Her breathing was light. “Do you want to?”

His hand perfectly cupping the curve of her cheek, he turned the question back to her, uncertain though hopeful. “Do you?”

And she looked at him with a fierceness he had not yet realized he loved. “Yes.”

That smirk she saw every time she closed her eyes filled his face once more, grin spreading like sunlight. “Good.”

“Good,” she said.

His thumb stroked the rise of her cheek. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

“You asked to talk to me for that?”

“Yep.”

She felt just the hint of his lips against hers. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

The loud and deafening siren began to wail behind them, lights flashing frantically as the fire alarm was set off inside the main kitchen. The sudden noise made her pull back before he could come any closer, but not before her teeth sank down hard into his bottom lip as she shut her mouth, startled.

Taichi yelped in pain, lurching back from her, and she immediately lost her balance as they jumped apart. Tripping in opposite directions, they collided with the hard floor, Taichi knocking into the steel bars of the wired shelves along the wall and Mimi striking her head against the corner of the table.

He immediately rolled over onto his side to push himself up again, dizzily gathering his bearings, fingers brushing against his puffy and swollen lip, and his eyes found hers as she slowly pulled herself up, head spinning. They looked at each other for a second more before the fire alarm blared to life once more, and shouting on the other side of the doors stole their attentions from each other.

“What on earth—?” began Mimi, struggling to stand again but finding the room all lopsided when she tried. Her knees gave away just as he leapt around the table to her side, and she let herself sink forward into him.

“Careful,” he said, voice slurred if only to show how he was still figuring out what was happening, or what had even happened, himself.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. Clutching his shirt in little balls of her fists, she held onto him as he pulled them back into the open air kitchen, where the middling crowd still left behind at the end of the party scrambled to both put out the small table-top fire that blazed brilliantly over what was once a cake of some kind and dismantle the criminally loud fire alarm still screaming along the nearby side wall.

Mimi yanked herself out from underneath Taichi’s arm when she saw the chaos in her kitchen, her eyes settling on a huddled Daisuke at the next sink, under whose faucet the chef had plunged a red thumb and index finger of his right hand.

“What happened?” she cried, rushing forward with Taichi trailing after her, wincing at the loud, obnoxious alarm sounding over all their heads.

“I made a surprise good luck cake for you,” shouted Daisuke over the noise. “But I got carried away with the candles!”

“Oh, Daisuke!”

“Got it!” declared Takeru, finally yanking open the alarm holder and turning off the siren, the silence strangely just as deafening. He winced, finger tugging at his ear as he climbed down the small portable ladder he’d used to stand on while trying to stop the alarm.

“That has to be the worst sound in history,” groaned Willis, cupping his own ears to massage.

Koushiro, having at last located the first aid kit Mimi kept at each of the kitchen stations, returned to Daisuke’s side with a tube of aloe cream, though Michael suggested Daisuke keep his hand under the water for a moment longer.

Hikari looked around the room, anxious. “Is everyone okay?”

There was a chorus of middling to whimpering mutters of assurance that people were fine, if somewhat less in the party spirit after such a thoroughly frightening siren interrupting the affair, but then Hikari gave a small gasp. “You’re bleeding, too?” she noticed with a start, pointing to the scarlet red droplets forming on her brother’s lip.

“It’s nothing,” said Taichi at once, hand over his mouth, while Mimi’s face turned a dark pink.

Hoping to distract people’s attentions descending suddenly upon the two of them, with Daisuke’s suspicious eyes narrowing in slow understanding, Taichi turned to Mimi and shook his head at her exasperated look. “Well, at least we got it to stop before the firemen got here, right?”

Another wail of sirens answered them, and Mimi slowly closed her eyes, sighing heavily.

“Don’t worry, Mimi,” declared Daisuke, leaning over the sink and wincing as he flexed his hand. “This is the first and only time the fire truck visits during my new reign.”

“Day one…,” said Takeru, trailing off with a smile.


	22. I’ll love you more so don’t be scared

**_hi_ **

**_Hi!_ **

**_whats ur dads name_ **

**_My dad?_ **

**_yep_ **

**_Keisuke. Why?_ **

**_ur moms?_ **

**_Satoe._ **

**_hm_ **

**_Why are you asking me this?_ **

**_just checking_ **

**_My memory or my family history?_ **

**_went 2 lib, wanted 2 see if u were in this book i found_ **

**_I can’t believe you know where the library is. What book?_ **

**_vampire histories_ **

**_FOR SHIT’S SAKE I SAID I WAS SORRY GOD_ **

**_i like when u call me god_ **

And though it was at that point that she stopped answering him, Taichi kept his grin on all afternoon, through a meeting lasting one hour more than he suspected was legally sanctioned by human rights campaigns around the world, a chain email stretching far into the double digits of responses and replies and questions that were never completely resolved, and a conference call with a branch so inept that he had to physically restrain his free hand from shooting out to punch the receiver with a furious fist. He swallowed all these instincts and endured all these trying moments because doing so meant a gasp of quiet between each, and it was only in these snatches of sanity that he could talk to her. He couldn’t remember wanting to talk to anyone this much before.

Of course, it wasn’t always easy. Their new work schedules were not in any way synched for normal conversation times. His Sunday to Thursday project had been especially trying as of late, and she had been put straight to work on her apprenticeship in an industry that rarely gave time off and certainly not to those at the bottom rung of the ladder of importance. They were alike in that they had both started relatively recently at their current posts, but the inconsistent reliability of her service-industry based profession and his short-term contractual work only added more uncertainty to already uncertain times. Because of this, those moments they could speak were so important to him that he was careful to make the most use of what they did have.

Of course, none of this kept him from monopolizing every chance he could find to perform what he steadfastly believed was his incredible mastery of what were, essentially, “dad jokes,” but if that were his only skill in life, it would be enough for him. It was enough for her, too, because even though by now her most frequent response to his entire existence was a massive eye roll, it was always accompanied with that stubborn little smile at the pull of her full lips, that tiny corner of mouth curling to the side in such a way that every time he saw it, his head just emptied of all reason and thought.

He once had fallen so silent in staring at that sweet smirk that she hung up the phone, innocently believing the screen had frozen on his utterly bewitched and confused face, and redialed the video connection. He’d had to fumble through the shameless excuse of poor reception to cover his tracks, to not once again let his mind dwell on the unfair fact that that would-have-been-something moment in the kitchen at her goodbye party was still the closest he’d gotten to kissing her, or indeed the last time he’d even gotten to be alone with her in the same space, in weeks.

It was a bit like being a teenager again, this impatient build up, but even as a teenager the most he’d ever had to wait to kiss a girl was the fifteen minutes it took to walk from home to school (ten if the girl of the month was particularly skilled; contrary to popular belief, he was never really a lazy kid growing up, he only needed the proper motivation). This wasn’t the same because there was no getting around the fact that with adulthood came responsibilities, and those responsibilities were all the more valid because they were dreams, too. She had to stay away, because this was everything she ever wanted. And she loved it. He could hear it in her voice, every word she spoke, even when she’d try to mask it all with complaints and whining about the long hours and difficult tasks and surly colleagues.

She liked her new life, and she was good at it. He’d always known this; it was the former he had trouble accepting.

After the conference call finally ended, far later than it ever should have gone on, Taichi managed his impatience with inhuman levels of restraint and strode quickly from the seminar room to his own cubicle. Tossing his files carelessly on top of the cabinet beside the desk, he did not reseat himself in the rolling chair but instead bent over the keyboard to shake the monitor of his desktop awake with the cordless mouse, falling into the routine of logging out of his accounts and shutting the machine down. If he timed this right, he could get out before rush hour on the subway, and without attracting attention from colleagues.

Making sure he had everything he needed tucked away in his black shoulder satchel, he peered around the hallway and tiptoed between the corridors to the elevators, narrowly avoiding one of the more chatty staff members by dipping into the lift with lightning speed just before she could turn the corner from the break room across the hall. Simply making it to the elevator undetected wouldn’t be enough, he knew. His new workplace housed most of its employees on a leased floor of a large, downtown high rise on a busy intersection with lots of foot traffic and exchange. This usually meant that blending into the throngs of other company employees and businesspeople, as well as patrons and crowds loitering around the shops on the lower levels of the building, was both a blessing and a curse; at any point, familiar faces could materialize and the rumor mill would start up again, making its way back up to his own floor. But he wouldn’t worry about that until he had to, and all that mattered now was making it to the lift without too much notice.

Now inside the small elevator, he pulled out his phone from his jacket pocket and toggled the screen back on, scrolling through his messages to see if she was still annoyed. She evidently was, for she had yet to respond to the emoticon of a halo and praying hands he’d sent after the god exchange earlier, though he was willing to bet she’d already seen it. Well, two could play the stubborn game. In fact, the stubborn game was what made this so much fun.

**_miimii_ **

Nothing.

**_miiiiimiiiii_ **

Nothing.

**_miiiiiiimiiiiiii_ **

Nothing.

**_u and i both kno i can keep this up all day, every day, until the weekend, & u kno im worse in person _ **

The ellipses of thought appeared then, and he felt a funny kind of relieved triumph, the moment passing when the ellipses unexpectedly disappeared for a long moment, like she’d started and erased a first response before settling at last on the one she did send a little while later. The humor of this message made him forget the curious one left unsent, and he smiled reading it. **_You’re nothing without attention, aren’t you?_**

Grinning, he was quick to reply. **_oh ho ho look whos talking. ridicule my ploys all u want, but u miss me_**

**_I don’t think it’s missing you so much as missing correcting you._ **

**_so u do miss me_ **

**_Let’s not get carried away._ **

**_admit it_ **

**_Stupid. Of course, I do._ **

Taichi smirked, brushing his thumb under his nose. **_even when my jokes arent funny?_**

**_Are you suggesting that they ever are?_ **

**_WOW_ **

**_Now who’s the funny one?_ **

The sudden jolt as the elevator came to a halt threw him into the side panel, the phone falling to the floor with a loud clatter. The lift had stopped at one of the shopping levels of the sky rise, and the doors opened just as he started to bend over to retrieve the mobile, hoping against hope the screen hadn’t cracked in the unexpected drop. Another hand reached it first, however, and Taichi looked up to see a nervous set of dark eyes and a thin wrist handing him the phone.

He couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.

“Thanks,” he stammered at last, slipping the cell into the inside pocket of his suit jacket without checking the screen.

Jou gave him a short though not impolite nod, entering the small elevator to stand at the opposite corner as the doors slid shut.

It was at that moment that Taichi became acutely aware of how slow these company elevators were, and how tall Jou rather was, and how miraculously stupid this entire situation was, and why these things always seemed to happen to him. His pocket vibrated then with an incoming text message, and he briefly shut his eyes, an inexplicable discomfort drying his mouth.

And then, quite expectedly, the doctor was speaking to him. “Congratulations,” he piped up, the squeaky quality of his voice revealing his own state of uncertainty at their being found together like this.

His heart gave a little jump and he peeked out a large brown eye, glancing at the man. “Oh—?”

Jou added, “Yamato mentioned to me that he and Sora had gotten together. I’m sure—,” he coughed, “I mean, as their friend, I’m sure you’re happy for them.” Then he paused, cheeks pink. “Well, maybe telling _you_ ‘congrats’ is—,”

“Ah, that,” interrupted Taichi. “Don’t worry, I figured—well, it’s good, you know, for them.”

“Yeah,” said Jou.

They fell into another spell of silence, but this time it was Taichi who ended it. “You—you’re here for—?”

“Just some errands,” he confirmed, gesturing the thin plastic shopping bag in his left hand.

“Right,” said Taichi. “I think it’s pretty convenient, having the shops just below the office. Makes me less likely to forget what I have to pick up when I walk by the stores,” and he grinned, wincing inwardly at how forced even that laugh sounded, remembering the last message she’d sent with a sudden ironic clarity.

Jou only smiled, good-natured. “I always thought people in the offices above department stores had a convenient time of it.”

Taichi nodded, then admitted, “’Course, you’ve got to put the blinders on sometimes if it’s not the best day to be convenient to the old bank account.”

This time the other man did give a low chuckle in response. “Whatever you have to do is probably necessary.”

“Self-control’s never really been my strong suit,” he said, relaxing for the first time in the conversation. “My sister always tells me I’m too impulsive to really control myself around something I want.”

It just after the word left his mouth that he bit through to his lip again, tongue scraping against the faint memory of the scar she’d left. Jou was nodding politely again, but silent this time, and staring straight up ahead as the numbers on the elevator scale decreased steadily. The phone vibrated against his chest once more, and Taichi raised a hand on instinct towards it just as the bell chimed to indicate they’d reached the lobby of the building at last.

Taichi allowed the other to exit first, where Jou readjusted his hold around his shopping bag. “There’s a different, you know,” he said quietly, not looking at him, “between what you want and what you need.”

His hand still over the outline of the cell phone in the inside pocket of his jacket, Taichi hesitated. “Yeah,” he said at last. “There is.”

The young doctor nodded, gaze still turned away, then said his goodbyes with the return of a gentle smile and left Taichi still standing in front of the elevator banks of the lobby floor. It was only after the phone vibrated one last time under his hand that he realized how long he’d been motionless there by the lifts, inconveniencing the busy crowds and employees around him.

He did not look at his phone until he had reached the subway, descending the trash-strewn staircase and entering his travel card into the slot for admission behind the rails. Moving down the platform, he found a spot away from the other slowly gathering lines and leaned against the whitewashed wall, pulling out the mobile with less enthusiasm than he had in a long while.

The first thing he saw on the screen put a quick pause on the mess of confusion in his head that had settled in by that point. Miyako’s name was flashing in red in two missed calls, minutes apart from each other, followed by a text from her that was no so politely requesting he call her back as soon as he could. He glanced at the digital announcement clock hanging overhead and decided to risk the impending arrival time with a quick call, curiosity getting the better of him.

Miyako answered at once, and he assumed it was a good thing he hadn’t waited. “What took you so long?” she exclaimed in lieu of a proper greeting.

Taichi shook his head, rubbing a hand under his thick bangs. “Miyako, it’s been maybe five minutes.”

“Never mind,” she interrupted. “So since Mimi’s been too busy to come visit here for the weekend as previously planned, Daisuke and I want to go up on Saturday, and I think you should come. I’m about to make reservations for us so I need to know when you’d be able to—,”

“Wait, hold on,” said Taichi, confused. “I thought she said she’d—she’s not coming?”

“No,” Miyako said with exasperation, annoyed at having to repeat herself. Without warning, she started coughing and heaving, lurching away from the phone so that a barrage of shuffled noises irritated his ears instead. She returned a second later, more composed, muttering, “Sorry, I’m still getting over this stupid cold. All this phlegm is still caught in my throat and it’s making me really—,” she broke off, gagging again, nearly making him reel at the sound of her discomfort. Recovering at last, she paused. “Anyway, yeah, she can’t come I guess because of that insane apprenticeship schedule. Didn’t she tell you?”

Taichi pulled the phone back from his ear, navigating back to his messages while still remaining on the phone call. He knew he wouldn’t see the notice in any of their messages, but his mind was going sluggishly slow suddenly, and he stared for a minute at the string of jokes and emoticons and flirty exchanges before carefully returning the mobile to the side of his face again.

“She’s been so busy,” Miyako was saying now, as though she’d guessed, correctly, that Taichi didn’t want to answer her question anymore. “Honestly, she didn’t let me know either, only Daisuke, and you know how forgetful he is sometimes. He only just told me this morning. Anyway, if you’re free, it would be nice to go for the weekend. We’d already made plans to have her down anyway, so it’s not like it would be a problem just changing the location. Plus—,”

“Sounds fun,” said Taichi, intervening before her rambling could go on too long, “but you know I work on Sundays. Even if we left early enough on Saturday, I’d have to be back again so soon after that I would just be spending all my time travelling.”

But Miyako didn’t buy it. “That’s what makes it spontaneous! I thought you loved this kind of stuff—you and Daisuke are just alike about—,”

“You two should spend some time there. I’ll only—,”

“What’s going on?” she demanded loudly, drowning him out.

Taichi rubbed his face, shouldering his travel workbag once more. “Nothing.”

She fell silent, as though if she were quiet enough she’d be able to hear his thoughts directly. He opened his mouth to make an excuse to hang up, his head developing an onset ache at the temple, when she interrupted in a cool manner, “You know, she tells me when you two talk. She’s always sharing things, telling me stuff. I see just about everything you send her.”

He blanked. “How?” he asked rather stupidly.

“You’re not the only one she video calls.”

Taichi had privately entertained the idea that he was special, and so this news was not particularly welcome. “Oh,” he said, and then the full weight of her words hit him and his face paled. “Wait—everything? She tells you everything I send her?”

Miyako started laugh, but then caught the look in his wide eyes and immediately her giggle turned into a choking gasp. “Why—are you—are you sending her gross stuff?”

“What’s gross about this?” cried Taichi, gesturing at his face, for a moment genuinely believing she could tell what body part he was pointing to over the phone.

Seeing as how she could clearly not tell what he was referencing, Miyako said nothing, and he took an even greater offense to the silence. “Oh, like you’re the picture of health,” he snapped back.

Now even more confused, but not lost enough to miss what she heard as an insult to herself, “It’s a onetime thing! I had this cold all last week and then I ate something bad last night on top of it all!”

“Fat chance,” said Taichi at once. “When has Daisuke ever cooked anything bad?”

“That—that’s not the point!” she sputtered, evidently thrown by the use of compliments in an argument.

“At least you can have nice food,” continued Taichi, grumbling, “and you don’t have to sit on a train for five hours just to get some.”

“Get _what_?”

“You know what I meant,” he said before adding quickly, “and what I _didn’t_ mean.”

“Yeah, well, you should always consider yourself invited for dinner,” snapped Miyako in a huff.

They lingered a moment in this strange silence, trying to sort out what exactly had happened and, more importantly, who had won the non-fight.

Finally, Miyako said, “I know you two text more often than friends do.”

But Taichi only shrugged, thoughtfully reminiscent. “Eh, I don’t know. I remember getting my phone taken away when I was a kid because I overran the data plan talking to Yamato and Takeru—,”

“Oh, my God, please stop being so boring about this,” complained Miyako. “Don’t pretend neither of you wouldn’t take the first chance to see each other in person.”

“I always want to see Yamato in person.”

He could hear her breathing change and decided too late that this wasn’t a joking matter, even if jokes were the only language his emotionally stunted personality could really speak.

He interrupted her response for fear of lethal retaliation, “Of course, I want to see her, Miyako. You don’t think it drives me crazy having to look at her only through a screen? But you said yourself she’s busy right now, and the job only just started.”

“All the more reason to surprise her with a visit,” she insisted.

“Come on,” he smiled, serious this time. “You really think she wants that right now?”

“No,” said Miyako. “I think she needs it.”

Taichi stopped in his tracks for the second time that hour, and it was when he began formulating a coherent reply that the subway train began approaching the station, the sounds drowning out her voice on the other end. He barely made out her instructions for him to call her back once he was at home again, and he managed to answer in the affirmative before ending the call just as the train came to a stop by the platform.

He was still contemplating the strange series of exchanges by the time he’d made it home, mutely nodding a greeting to the elderly woman neighbor who was arriving to her apartment next door at the same time he stepped up around the staircase to his from the other end of the corridor. He shut the door behind him, slipping off his shoes and dropping his work bag on the sofa. He passed the living room and into the bedroom, pulling off his suit jacket and moving through the usual motions of distressing after a long day at work. Once changed into pajama bottoms and a regular, suspiciously stained white T-shirt, he returned to the kitchen to see what he could find that would be edible with the least amount of effort involved, finding one last bottle of beer and a tin of homemade spaghetti sauce that Sora had given him so long ago he was not sure how well the food had kept.

He gave the options some serious thought, then decided to go with drinking the beer instead.

The drawer next to the fridge had the only bottle opener that he had been able to find despite swearing up and down that he owned at least three. But when he reached into the mess of utensils to feel around for the slender silver instrument, his fingers found instead the still packaged garlic peeler, neatly tucked into the back of the drawer where it would be safe from damage.

He picked it up now, turning it over slowly.

Clutching it tight in his hand, he left the drink on the counter and returned to the bedroom, fumbling for the phone with his free hand. Unlocking the screen easily, he paused a moment to rip the peeler from its plastic container and then took a quick picture of the gadget with the mobile. He settled on the bed to write her back at last, choosing his words carefully. Message sent, he turned off the phone completely, shutting it down to avoid the temptation of checking every second for her response. Instead, he placed both phone and peeler on the bedside table, pausing only to even his breathing, and then trotted off back to the kitchen for his meal of beer, spaghetti sauce, and ruddy awful reality TV.

Lost in the dozing, mindless marathon of television banality, it was quite some time before Taichi even remembered the tin after lying on the couch for so long. He’d been distracted the entire evening, trying to focus on the moving images while nursing his one lonely beer and remembering every single detail of the message he’d sent her, and he felt the headache swelling at the point behind his temple each time he blinked and saw that sweet smirk at the corner of her mouth, all against the chorus of confusion and hesitance swirling about without warrant.

Shaking his head of the nervous thoughts, he picked up the jar and sat up on the couch at last to sample it. It took both hands a considerable amount of work to get the lid pried open, and he was met with a rancid stench of far too old stewed creamy tomatoes, his stomach seeming to recede into itself at the odor. Squinting through the gross smell at the can, he spotted the note taped onto the other side of the lid so that it would have only been visible after the tin was open. There in Sora’s neat handwriting were the printed words, **_If you’re reading me, you waited until you’ve completely run out of food and are too bothered by something major to get yourself anything else besides this to eat. Do not eat this. We both know you hate my spaghetti sauce. Come over and talk._** The note was accompanied by the date, which was the week before he’d moved into the apartment, the last time he’d sunk low enough to need something like this lifeline in the water.

His eyebrow arched with something like surprised pleasure, impressed by her astonishing intuit into the inner workings of his soul, though he imagined she would likely claim such workings weren’t all that inner and rather too obvious as a whole. But he capped the tin anyway, relieved to have blocked the smell by returning the lid tight to its container, and jumped to his feet with every ounce of relief. Ignoring the phone and peeler, he raced back to the bedroom to grab only a jacket instead, fishing out his keys to have them handy. If she was going to be communicating with him from the future via spaghetti sauce tins, she would likely not need an advance phone call warning his impending arrival to take her up on the offer of a needed conversation. Besides, this was the benefit of having her so close by.

Pocketing the closed tin into his jacket, Taichi left his apartment and made the short trek a few blocks south to Sora’s living complex. It took no more than twenty minutes, even at his brisk pace, but he was walking at a rate just short of emergency so as to give himself enough time to come up with a good opening liner, one preferably bringing in the spaghetti sauce and her offer of twenty-four-hour availability for crisis management. Nothing was really coming to mind, however, and Taichi took this as a grave sign of how much that day and the weeks since had really encroached on his peace of mind, his struggle to make something normal again with everything so close in reach.

So he stood for a second outside her door on the second floor of her building, pausing at the landing before pressing the doorbell.

He heard nothing, not even footsteps, and that was when he saw that even the hallway light through the front window was not turning on as it usually was at night.

Frowning, Taichi leaned his whole weight against the doorbell, letting the ringer go off on a long, unending wail, and then stepped back impatiently. It was as he was beginning to wonder if coming here at all was the right move, trying to remember what Sora’s work schedule was on a weekday evening. Had he missed her? Was she in town this week, or perhaps had she—

And he clapped a hand to his forehead, eyes shut, as he remembered the email announcing the trip she’d been sent to for work. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed.

“Who, me?”

Taichi’s eyes snapped open, meeting Sora’s groggy gaze at the open doorway. Relieved, he swallows his laughter and tried to apologize. “Ah, no, sorry. Were you sleeping?”

“I’m still jetlagged,” she complained, yawning.

He winced again, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Right. How—how was your trip?”

She suppressed an eye roll, trying to sound as kind as possible. “Let’s not pretend we’re the kind of friends who visit each other at odd times of the night to ask about a business trip for something neither of us care about.” She paused, leaning against the doorpost, head tilted to the side. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I sent you a postcard from this last one.”

“You did,” said a new voice. “I know because the other day I caught him using it to practice forging your signature for food delivery orders.”

The kindness evaporated from Sora’s tone at once, but Taichi expertly avoided her, peering around her shoulder to see Yamato behind them both, clad only in thin pinstriped pajama bottoms and frowning at the pair in the hallway.

Dark brown eyes rolled so far they had trouble refocusing. “Jesus, put a shirt on, will you? This isn’t a swimwear ad.”

Yamato threw him a rude hand gesture. “It’s not a free show either.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’d pay for it.”

“Go back out and close the door from the other side.”

“I’ve got a reason to be here,” said Taichi stubbornly, fishing out the tin at last. He held it out to the pair of them, with Sora’s face melting into a groan of deep regret and Yamato’s expression fading away into utter confusion.

“Why are you carrying spaghetti sauce in your pocket?” he demanded, astounded.

“It’s not spaghetti sauce,” corrected Sora miserably. “He’s playing the spaghetti sauce card.”

Yamato looked as though he were about to ruin his entire image by stating the obvious, that the jar in fact was not a literal card, but Sora was too exhausted to continue trying to make the point, shoving Taichi into the apartment with more force than necessary. “Let’s get it over with. Go in. Sit down.”

They obeyed. Taichi went first, triumphantly smacking the jar of spaghetti sauce on the table top as Yamato dragged his feet and dropped tiredly into the chair opposite. He crossed his arms and stared down the man seated across from him, wearing an intensity that suggested he was likely the only human being on the planet with the potential to successfully master destruction by telepathy.

“Fine,” he said at last, choosing to accept the ludicrous pretext. “So what, the spaghetti sauce card is for serious business, right? Well, then, you’d better have either killed somebody or knocked someone up.” 

Sora clicked her tongue, ruffling his blond hair in warning as she eased behind his chair and towards the refrigerator, but Taichi only smirked. “You know, there was a time when the doors to our homes and hearts were always open to friends and loved ones, no questions or limitations of time or occasion or lack of spaghetti jar—which smells awful, by the way. I told you your spaghetti is killer.”

(“I’m going to hit him,” said Yamato in amazement.)

“You were supposed to use that card a long time ago,” reminded Sora, ignoring the other’s verbal state of denial of the present unexpected situation. “I made it after you moved apartments, because I thought you’d need it most then. It’s not my fault you never notice what people put in your flat. Honestly, do you ever clean?”

“Don’t change the subject just because I’m pointing out how long it’s been since how we used to talk before.”

“What do you mean _before_?” cried Yamato, interrupting again, beside himself with disbelief. “When have we not been there for any of your hundreds of ridiculous situations in the past two decades?”

“Putting numbers on it is so crass,” muttered Taichi.

Yamato threw up his hands. “How else are you supposed to measure time?”

“Time? Really? You want another way to measure the imaginary construct around which all life is organized?” Taichi crossed his arms, chin raised. “Fine. How about companionship, or loyalty, or the lost art of conversation?”

“We are not going to sit here and have an hour long argument about who’s a better friend,” said Sora in a thundering voice before adding in a regretful huff, “Not again, anyway.” She placed three glasses and a pitcher of water on the table. “Now, if you’re avoiding the subject not in the normal way but in the extra annoying way,” she said to Taichi, “then clearly you’ve got a lot to talk about, so please just get to the point.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled. “So, um, a while ago, actually, something happened that I haven’t—didn’t tell you guys yet.”

Sora’s face paled. “You really did kill someone, didn’t you?” she asked at the same time that Yamato wondered aloud, “Am I an uncle?”

Taichi rolled his eyes, reaching for a glass and the pitcher to fill the cup with water, giving his hands a task to distract himself with as he broached a topic he wasn’t sure he’d ever really be comfortable sharing. “I know I should have said something before, but things kind of piled on after another, and then everyone got pulled into different directions, and it just got harder to pin everyone down like this, plus I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to talk about anything when things quieted down, but then I found out that—,”

“Just say it,” cried Yamato, gesturing helplessly with his hands.

“You really need to work on your patience,” advised Taichi. He turned his attention to finishing his long sip of water, an action that prevented him from seeing the blond’s hand instinctively lash out to throttle him, lowering the glass to the table only after Sora had grabbed Yamato’s elbow and yanked his arm down to his lap. Blissfully unaware that his life could have ended only seconds before, Taichi finally admitted after a sigh, “It’s just—well, that time when I kind of was out of it for a while, right after you got back together—which is not related at all, by the way—was because I was sorting out what to do when—when she came.”

 “Came where?” repeated Sora at the same time that Yamato, his seething momentarily subsiding in the face of a new mystery, demanded suspiciously, “Who did?”

Tongue-tied, Taichi bent over the table to rub his face so as to buy himself even more time before speaking, the calloused pads of his fingertips scraping against thick eyebrows.

His lingering silence told them the truth before he could find any words, however, and in the next second Yamato had sat straight up with a clenched jaw and Sora—in a complete reversal of their roles only moments before—had clambered blindly to her feet in an incoherent rage, sputtering, “That—that—what—how—who—wait—can’t—she—!”

Yamato coolly leaned over to grab Sora’s hand, pulling her back down to the table, where she resumed her seat with a red face to match her hair. Radiating a fraternal defense that seemed to drop the entire temperature of the room another ten degrees, Yamato said simply, “I see,” while Sora ground her teeth together in between deep, rasping breaths.

Taichi didn’t know whether to be made fearful or emotional by their responses. “Nothing happened at first,” he said at last, stammering, trying not to grin stupidly at their fierce protectiveness. “We just—talked. It was maybe ten minutes, if even.”

“About what?” asked Sora, voice strangled.

“She wanted to give me her ring back,” said Taichi, and Sora’s expression blanked. He shrugged, cracking a smile. “It was kind of nice she even held onto it as long as she did, right?”

Neither said anything in response, contemplating the sentiment, if it could be called one. After a moment, Yamato gave a stiff nod. “I suppose it was good she did it in person,” he decided at last, wise enough to let his best friend have this moment of harmless-in-the-long-term delusion.

Taichi nodded with a little more enthusiasm than the situation warranted, and Sora looked as though she were struggling to find something to say, only to come up with nothing now that her counsel was no longer in want. She turned to Yamato, eyes wide and expectant, and he voiced both of their thoughts delicately, “You said at first, right? What happened after?”

His enthusiasm faded, and Taichi only shook his head, chewing on the corner of his mouth. “She tried to tell me…I mean, you guys know how I didn’t think I ever wanted to see her again,” he said, hesitant. “I know I thought I did for a while, a long while. I was going to ask her everything. I was going to—,” he stopped, thinking. “But then I did see her, and everything I wanted to know…I realized I didn’t need to know anymore.”

“That’s good, Tai,” said Sora, voice returning to its usual register of kindness and empathy at last.

This time, he nodded. “I’m okay with not knowing. I don’t want that, and I don’t need it.”

They were silent, waiting, so he continued slowly, “But that was with her. And now, with—um, with, with Mimi, I know that what I want—or what I need is—maybe— _quit laughing_!”

Sora clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles that had erupted the moment Taichi had said Mimi’s name. Her laughter came like a knee-jerk reaction of relief and anxiety from the curveball he’d thrown at them in announcing the unexpected return of someone she also never wanted to see again. Yamato seemed to sense her internal crises emerging, and he reach across the table to fill her a glass of water, sliding it into her shaking free hand even as her other fingers remained pressed tightly over her lips. Taichi was frowning at her with utter disappointment and a little bit of curiosity at the overflowing of emotions she was exhibiting in such a short span of time, so Yamato had to prod him to continue.

Taichi shrugged again, drumming his fingers on the table and amusedly watching Sora’s giggles turn to hiccups between gulps of water. “Um—,”

Yamato, having already expended his patience the moment Taichi walked into Sora’s apartment with the inexplicable tin of spaghetti sauce, decided to intervene and rephrase the problem for him. “Are you having doubts about the two of them or something? I mean, you spent time with Catherine afterwards first, right? So it’s not like you’re behaving unusually given the situation. I don’t think Mimi expects anything different. She’s busy anyway, so why would she—?”

“That’s exactly it,” said Taichi, recovering his senses the minute Yamato put words to it. He stopped drumming the tabletop, running a finger over the counter in slow designs. “She is busy. It’s an important moment for her. And I feel like she doesn’t need this right now.”

Sora, hiccups marking her return to sensible response with a humorous lilt, offered, “It won’t do you any good to be guessing what she does or doesn’t need. I think you made it pretty clear to each other you want to explore what might be possible.”

“Of course, I want to,” he said, mildly annoyed. “But wanting and needing are different. Right?”

He looked at them for conformation, for an answer, a solution to figuring out what he should do next.

But it was impossible to look for a way out, outside of one’s self.

That just wasn’t how it worked.

So Yamato shook his head gently, and Sora smiled quietly, and Taichi knew the only answer that mattered to that was the one waiting in the inbox of his phone messages at home.

He bent forward, rubbing his face in exhaustion. “Do you guys ever think about the ways people find each other? How things like that can even happen given all that has to happen first before you meet someone right?”

“What do you mean?” asked Yamato, doubtful by the change in topic.

“You know, like fate.”

Sora spoke first, humorous disbelief lining her words. “Are you asking us if we believe in a higher power?”

Taichi rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing that dramatic. But there’s got to be something, isn’t there? I mean, look at you two,” and he gestured about the kitchen, pointing at seemingly everything in the apartment except for the couple in question.

Yamato admitted in an unsure voice, “Well, I don’t know if I’d call it fate.”

“What you call it doesn’t matter,” said Taichi. “Either way, there’s got to be a reason you made it after all that happened.”

It was a rare occasion when Yamato blushed, but here it was on his otherwise normally pale face, the pinks lifting a sort of brightness to his cheeks and bringing the blues of his eyes to a sharper contrast. He raised his chin in a dignified way, as though he could wish away any embarrassment if he only commanded it hard enough. “It’s not that we _made_ anything, Tai. It was work. It was—hard.” And he gave Sora a furtive glance, unsure if he was speaking with the proper amount of care.

She smiled at him and he relaxed, his complexion returning to normal. Turning her attention to Taichi, she nodded with utmost seriousness, though her voice was kinder. “You can’t compare stories, Taichi. You know that.”

“I know,” he agreed after a moment. His fingers continued drumming on the tabletop, until she laid her hand over his. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We met—I mean, all of this began because I was supposed to marry someone else, someone I really wanted to marry once before. That’s where it started.”

“Not true,” interrupted Yamato. “That’s not where you’re starting.”

Sora gripped his hand tighter between hers. “Even if it was, Tai, beginnings don’t make anything a guarantee, and neither will worrying about the ways to any kind of end. So why get hung up on it? You deserve better than that. That’s the only thing any of us really need to want.” She smiled, fingers lacing together with his tightly, and he let his thumb press into hers, tapping against her palm in reassurance. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, not as sure as he wanted to be, but certainly more calm than he’d been before he’d walked in.

She slid her hand back and he used the awkward silence to finish his glass of water, mouth unexpectedly parched. He stood when he’d almost finished, draining the last gulp in the walk to the sink to wash his glass. As he did, Yamato was the one to speak first, swallowing a smirk. “Either way, next time, Tai, lead with the ex-fiancée showing up at your door and skip the pretext of the spaghetti jar, all right?”

Sputtering over the last sip, Taichi started to joke back, but the sight of an official-looking paper decorating the side of the fridge facing the sink distracted him. He lowered the glass to lean forward, frowning at the familiar language as he read closely. It was a court document, dated for just that morning, freshly stamped and approved with signatures marked on both required lines as well as the witness and officiant spaces. He knew this form, he realized slowly, the weight of the moment descending with vengeance across his face. He’d almost signed it before—

Sora saw what he had spotted and choked back, “Wait—Taichi, don’t look at that—,” but Taichi had already spun around, mind blank, mouth open wide.

“Don’t freak out,” Yamato began slowly, rising from his chair to face his friend.

“We can explain,” said Sora at the same time, frozen in her seat as she look at him.

But it was too late.

“You got married?!”


	23. When we’re old and near the end

Miyako watched with muted disapproval as her boyfriend launched out of his side of the booth to stand in front of their table. He tipped the serving dish of lightly sautéed vegetables onto an empty bread plate and began rearranging the assemblage into a new portrait. Dipping his spoon into the saucer of peppered olive oil, he drizzled the mixture over the vegetable dish, splashing lightly for aesthetic effect. Then, without giving himself time to marvel at the handiwork, he dove back into the booth just as their waiter returned.

The man paused when he saw the vegetables, dramatically different in layout now than they’d been when he’d delivered the meal to the table moments earlier. He frowned at the dish, as though uncertain if he had brought out the right order. He blinked several times, mouth open, but then seemed to think the better of it. Instead, he coughed, voice strained, “More wine, sir?”

“I will, indeed, my good man,” Daisuke replied in an accent intended to mimic what he evidently believed was sophistication. The waiter moved to top off Miyako’s still full glass, leading her to abandon the attempt to melt into thin air so that she could decline and ask for an iced tea instead.

After the waiter was gone (glancing back at them a few times as he made his way to the kitchens), the young chef raised his drink, toasting himself, while his girlfriend began rubbing her temples to sway the headache that was dining with Daisuke in public. “You see how impressed he was? That is how you do presentation,” he told her, swallowing a large mouthful of the red wine.

She rubbed her head harder, fingers scraping against the sides of her glasses. “Uh, huh.”

Daisuke set the drink on the table and craned his neck over the sea of tables and patrons to study the entrance of the kitchen. “He’s probably going back there to let them know what I did, show them how much of a good eye I have for these kinds of details.”

“Mm.”

“It’s only a matter of time before they start offering me apprenticeships, too.” He gestured about with a magnificent twirl of his wrist, “Then all that your eye can behold will be mine.”

This time, her disinterested grunt collapsed into a choking laugh, hidden in her palm. “All of this?” she managed to ask between giggles, squinting at him through watery eyes.

He puffed up his chest, cheeks pinched. “More than this,” he corrected, a bright future shining in his mahogany eyes. She didn’t bother hiding her laugh this time, shaking her head, and he took a moment to relish in his still on point ability to distract her with good humor.

But there was something else he was hoping to ease her into talking about, and he leapt at the chance to do so, never one to be mindful about timing. “You know, you still haven’t answered me.”

A slender hand returned to cover her face, this time under the pretense of pushing back her long hair. He knew her better than that, better than she thought he did, at least. Tactless, he was without a doubt, but he wasn’t dumb all the time. So with a level of quiet patience that would have otherwise alarmed Miyako had she not already been distracted, Daisuke waited for her response.

She sat back, hands in her lap. “It’s not really convenient with the closest subway stop being actually pretty far—,”

“An oasis!” he corrected.

“The neighbors are weird—,”

“Never a dull conversation!”

“It’s just—it’s just—it—it’s small!” she burst out in the end.

“It’s cozy,” he replied, and in spite of herself, she laughed again.

He grinned at her over the top of his glass, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the tabletop. But she shook her head through the smiles, shrugging her shoulders with a gesture of unsettled resignation.

“See? There’s an answer to every single one of your worries. Come on, Miyako. You can’t tell me you love living with your sisters.”

This she had to admit was true. She loved them both, but it was hard enough finding time to be alone before; trying to get some private time with a boyfriend over was an entirely different matter.

“It’s just a really big deal, Daisuke,” she said.

“I know it is,” he responded at once. “That’s why I’m asking. I’m ready for it.”

She looked up at him, tilting her chin a little to the side, biting her nails. And then—

“Okay,” she said, a small smile on her lips.

His face was blank. “Huh?”

She rolled her eyes, “I said, yes, Daisuke. I’ll move in with you.”

He seemed in such genuine shock that for a moment Miyako thought the second coming had happened upon them—it’d be just her luck, too, if that were the case—but then the man leapt from his chair, overturning all the wine glasses and water jugs and dishes in a catastrophic cacophony. “You said yes!” he cried in disbelief, as she sat stunned at the immensity of his reaction, and he spun around to look at all the equally terrified restaurant guests. “She said yes!”

A few people began clapping, confused but somewhat moved by the scene, and Miyako frantically waved at them to stop. “Not that yes!”

“Not yet!” yelled Daisuke.

“Oh, my God—,”

“What is going on?” cried their waiter, bursting back through the kitchen doors and recoiling in horror at the disaster area that was once their very nice table. He faltered in fear when Daisuke launched himself at him for a manic hug, but Miyako had scrambled to her feet and wrenched on Daisuke’s collar just before he could pounce, yanking him back from the poor man. “You need to—you have to leave, now,” sputtered the waiter, but Miyako was already one step ahead of him. Still gripping her boyfriend’s shirt with a deathly hold, she grabbed her purse from off the floor where it had fallen and plowed around the tables and chairs and bewildered patrons to the door, stumbling out onto the street in the cool summer evening.

She let go of him then, opening her mouth to finally speak in a mixture of embarrassed fury, but then he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Their faces scrunched up against her round glasses, noses squished and out of breath, he whispered into her mouth, “You said yes.”

“I said yes,” she whispered back, breathless, but then pushed him back with a hand pressed to his flat chest. “On one condition,” she added.

“Anything,” he grinned at her.

“You’re getting rid of that sofa bed.”

Evidently, he’d been hoping for something more reasonable, or at least kinkier, than a home arrangement ultimatum. “Aw, babe!”

Miyako looped her arm around his, “And we’ll need new curtains. And maybe carpeting. And—,”

She continued over his increasingly louder groans, only stopping when they finally reached the small apartment door only a few short blocks from the restaurant she was sure they’d never be allowed into again. Well, at least it would make for a good story, she thought, squeezing his arm tighter as they knocked on the door, ignoring his continuing protests to the plans she was already making for their newly united space.

The soft patter of footsteps sounded and the door unlatched. Daisuke brightened when he saw who had come to let them in, surprised. “You’re home!”

“You’re home,” said Mimi in equal astonishment. “It’s so early! The five-course meals at that restaurant take at least two-and-a-half hours to get through.” She checked the gold watch on her left wrist, glancing up between them as they slipped by her and into the flat.

“It was shoddy service all around anyway,” said Daisuke dismissively, and Mimi shot her girlfriend a look. Miyako gestured silently the promise to explain later, noting sooner than Daisuke would the dark and tired circles under their friend’s eyes and the slouch in her tired shoulders. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes, her long hair still piled up into twisted braids and pinned around her head. Miyako observed all this in seconds, but not quick enough to stop Daisuke from spilling out suddenly, “We’ve got better news anyway.”

At once the exhaustion and melancholy vanished from her pretty face, and Mimi’s eyes widened into small hazel saucers. She clapped both hands over her mouth, “Oh! Oh, I can’t believe you’re—,”

“—moving in together!” finished Miyako quickly, forcing out a barking laugh that, luckily, did not alert her boyfriend to any ulterior purpose. He only beamed at the pair, while Mimi stopped in her tracks, brow furrowing into a confused point between her eyes. “Isn’t it great?”

“Um—,”

“What’s great?” asked a new voice, and a yawning Michael patted out from the living room, passing by the group in the hallway on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Oh, right, today was the special dinner, wasn’t it?” He winked his blue eyes at Miyako slyly, “Any exciting news to share about your—,”

“—moving in together!” finished Daisuke this time, launching over to smack a high-five against Michael’s unsuspecting hand as it reached for a glass. The cup toppled over, spilling water all over the counter, and Michael just stood in his kitchen with his arm still outstretched, staring at the panicked looking Miyako with bewilderment.

“Oh, moving in?” he repeated. “Is that—is that all?”

Daisuke shook his head in amused pity, “I’d say that’s a pretty damn big deal.”

Mimi smacked a hand over her face and Miyako shut her eyes, as Michael suddenly remembered how to speak normally. “Of course, it is,” he cried with genuine enthusiasm, reaching out to finally clap Daisuke on the shoulder. “Congrats to you both. Should we—um—should we celebrate?”

“Until there’s not a single person left standing,” vowed Daisuke, already shrugging off his dinner jacket. “Let me change into something more comfortable, though. I hate these button up shirts.” He yanked at the buttons, strolling off down the hallway, and it was only after they all heard the bathroom door click shut that the two roommates rounded on their bespectacled friend.

“You still haven’t told him?” demanded Michael.

“I thought that was the whole point of going out on your own tonight!” hissed Mimi.

“Right! You said you wanted to come up anyway—,”

“—even though I couldn’t come down to visit—,”

“—and tell him with us so we could celebrate. I got the sparkling drinks and everything!”

Miyako looked between the pair of them, nose scrunched as she struggled through a fussy response, until at last her eyes seemed to well up and her chin started to tremble.

“Oh, no—oh, Miyako, we didn’t mean it!” cried Mimi, wrapping her arms around her.

And Michael, despite having been friends with Mimi since childhood and well accustomed to dramatic behavior, grew bashfully embarrassed by his pressuring, looping around to the woman’s other side and patting her arm gently.

“I tried, I really did—I just needed time, and everything was happening all at once, and he kept asking me about his apartment, and I thought that I could try to explain why it was going to be too small, but then he kept saying all this stuff to me and looking like he does and being the way he is and I got all—,”

Mimi squeezed her tighter. “Don’t you worry, at all, sweetheart. Everybody takes their time with these things, and there’s nothing to feel pressure about. It’s still so early.”

“Moving in is a big deal, too,” said Michael, still patting. “You should be celebrating that, and everything that’s important for you both. Take it one at a time.”

She sniffled, wiping her nose in a thoroughly unattractive manner. “I just want to tell him at my own time.”

“Of course,” said Mimi.

“You should,” agreed Michael.

“You will,” nodded Mimi.

“Absolutely,” said Michael.

Miyako kept rubbing at her nose, peering at the both of them with narrowed eyes. “You both are really creepy when you’re guilty, you know that?”

Michael rolled his eyes, turning on his heel to return to his room. “I’ll change too, and then we can head out.”

“Are you gonna come?” asked Miyako, looking at Mimi hopefully.

The latter smiled, feeling another wave of guilt strike. “I really have to get up early for work. But listen,” she said quickly, when Miyako’s face fell again, “why don’t we meet early at the train station before you both have to go? I’ll come for coffee. I can time my break for then. I’ll just ask one of the other guys to cover for me.”

But Miyako was shaking her head, empathetic. “No, don’t do that. It’s still so early in your time here, and I don’t want you to make a bad impression.”

She gave her friend a wry smile. “A bit late for that, I think.”

Her frown was gentle. “Bad day at work?”

Mimi remonstrated herself, not wanting to spoil the mood. She shook her head, “Just a long one.”

“They work you too much over here,” remarked Miyako, sniffing. “They really do, Mimi.”

“It’s just restaurant life,” she said with a dismissive air, as though forcing herself to believe it, too.

Miyako could see through it, though, or at least she thought she could. She watched her with scrutiny. “You’re sure you’re all right, Mimi?

She gave an emphatic nod. “Yes. Now, go. Go out with the boys and have fun. Relax. And later we can compare swatches for all the changes you can make to that hideous apartment.”

Miyako burst out laughing, mood lightening at once. “Isn’t it awful? My God, I can’t wait to get my hands on it….”

“Not without sufficient warning, you don’t,” thundered Daisuke as he reemerged from the bathroom, freshened up in a far more comfortable graphic T-shirt and jeans. He was followed by a casually dressed Michael, his blond hair sleeked back with a bit of gel. “Just remember there’s a head to this new household,” continued Daisuke.

“Yes, and it’s a huge one,” said Mimi, flicking her fingers against the side of his maroon head.

He ducked away, sticking out his tongue at her, earning an unamused remark from Michael and a roll of the eye from Miyako. He started protesting at their taking Mimi’s side instead of his when she’d so plainly struck him first, but the older blond was already ushering him out the door as his girlfriend trailed after, waving goodnight to their host as they trio departed. 

Mimi shut the door quietly behind them, stifling a yawn.

It was the first time since they’d come to visit that she’d had the apartment to herself, or at least at this hour. She’d gotten home from work earlier than normal, which had surprised Michael when she’d entered the flat, though she’d brushed off his interest with some excuse or another about swapping shifts with a co-worker. Usually, she wouldn’t be home until the wee hours of the morning, sleeping for a few hours in a fretful slumber before rising up again just after daybreak to rush back out for the next day’s prep. It hadn’t been a lie to tell her friends that trips back home to see the catering shop and visit weren’t as tenable as she’d imagined before starting this job. At one point, she had really thought she could travel a lot more. But she hadn’t expected this position to turn into what it had, and she hadn’t realized how much it meant to her to succeed at this until it did.

And then he had to come along, and say those things to her in the bakery kitchen, and touch her the way he had, and make her feel the way he did.

Somehow she’d imagined it unravelling differently. Not worse, not better—just differently. With control. With…destiny.

But this felt out of reach, just when she had almost had it in her grasp.

Blinking quickly, she trudged into her tiny room, which had once been Michael’s home office before he’d kindly offered to revert it into a temporary living space for her stay. Her bed was cramped into one of the corners, while suitcases and boxes piled along the opposite wall, a long standing mirror propped up at the end. She hadn’t even had time to unpack, or make the place livable. She hadn’t had time to do anything she’d imagined.

Collapsing onto the bed, she retrieved her phone from the pocket of her work pants and thumbed through the messages again, settling with weary eyes on the last one he’d sent. It remained at the bottom of their thread, where it had been sitting, without response, for the past two days. Now and then she’d take it out to look at it, to think over and over the rehearsed number of responses she could make in her head, until she’d find herself in the morning slumped over on the pillowcase with the phone still clutched in her hand, the message thread still waiting.

She read it again now, mind already settling into that familiar, panicked race of worried wondering.

**_im going into this unprepared i think. still cant figure out how 2 use this. r u sure u wanna start on helping me figure this out if ur so far away?_ **

She stared at the message, her thumb running up and down the side of the phone, deep in thought. And then, moving her fingers carefully over the screen, she opened the message thread, selected his name, and pressed the call button.

The line rang three times before it finally picked up, and even then she was answered by the sound of a door closing and the rustling of clothes. At last his voice came to the phone, breathy as though he’d been caught in the middle of some difficult activity, or at least caught off guard. “Mimi?”

“Hi,” she said, meek at the sound of his voice. “Sorry to call so late.”

“Hey, no, it’s not that la—oh, damn—hold on a second, will you?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, and she heard the phone being put down onto a solid surface with a loud clang. There was more movement in the background, though no other voices, and she found her curiosity sufficiently sated.

When he returned to the line, she interrupted his greeting to demand, “What on earth are you doing?”

“Huh? Oh--,” and he laughed, nervously it seemed to her, “ah, just at Sora’s apartment, moving some stuff around for her. Now that they’re married, they’ve been slowly consolidating their things together and I came over to help out.”

Mimi accepted this answer, preoccupied more by the reminder of the big news of the week, or, indeed, year. “I still can’t believe they ran off like that.”

“You know, I couldn’t either, but then—I don’t know, they seem to like doing their own thing. Remember those weeks ago when I was having such a hard time getting in touch with them? Apparently that’s when everything went down, or at least when they decided this is what and how they wanted to do it, no fanfare or attention. I decided to forgive them after that. I mean, they did try their best to get a hold of me.”

Mimi swallowed a small smirk at the way he insisted on making the elopement about himself, knowing he was mostly in jest. “Is there going to be a reception or party at least?”

“There is now,” laughed Taichi. “Takeru and I are hosting it at mine next Friday.” Here he paused, hesitant, before adding, “You should come, if you can.”

She lay back on the mattress, free hand buried in her hair to tug absentmindedly at the loose locks. “It will depend on my work schedule.”

“Right,” he said a little too quickly, before recovering to add, “I mean, I know. I just thought I’d—you know, tell you. I know they’d like to see you there.”

“And you?”

His chuckle was low. “And me.”

She closed her eyes, listening to the tenor of his voice. “I’m really going to try to make it.”

“It’s fine, Mimi. We’ll figure it out, right? That’s what we said.”

“You still want to?”

His tone changed, and the background noises of rustling fabric and moving furniture at last came to a stop. “I’m always going to want to. I’m just trying to figure out how.”

She remembered the message again, reciting it over and over in her head. A gentle ache started to pierce at the back of her neck and she pressed a thumb over it, sucking in her breath.

“You know, you still haven’t answered me.”

She sighed, “I know.”

“I was sick the day my college psych class covered telepathy,” he joked after a long moment of silence.

She pressed her lips together, trying to be annoyed with how quickly he could magic a grin onto her face without ever really trying. “That’s too bad.”

“I’m still kicking myself, trust me.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Kick me?”

“Trust you.”

He felt his heart swell. “That’s quite a gamble, and you don’t strike me as the betting kind of gal.”

“I’m not worried about this one.”

His pause was ever so transparent. “Oh, no?”

She shook her head even though she knew he couldn’t see her and sat up once more. “No.”

“Kind of unusual to operate on radio silence when you think you’re solid, isn’t it?” His tone was casual, but she could see through him better than he knew.

“You’re not the innocent party here,” she reminded, trying not to think about how it had felt to see that message at the start of another awful workday. She flicked at bits of lint on the summer quilt over her bed. “It threw me off, is all. And I tried to call you back, but your phone went to voicemail. And then I had to start my shift. My evenings are always busy.”

He made a noncommittal noise in response, imagining her back in the patisserie. Was it possible to be jealous of kitchen utensils? What about busboys? _Yes. Those heathens_ , thought Taichi, mouth swallowed up in a scowl. It took him more than a moment later to realize Mimi was still talking.

“But I still should have answered you sooner.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

He was surprised to hear the trembling in her voice, alarmed that she would think his teasing to be anything more. “Mimi, I was joking—I know you’re busy,” he tried to explain. “Don’t say sorry.”

“Sorry,” she said again, on instinct it seemed, and he bit back a wringing smile. “I’m just tired.”

“Is that a low key way to tell me to shut up so you can sleep?” he asked with an intentional laugh.

“I’m not sleepy. I’m just tired.”

His tone took on a hint of seriousness, approaching carefully. “Of what?”

She didn’t say anything, pitching over in silence so that she now lay cross legged on the bed with her face flat into the mattress, phone awkwardly clutched between her shoulder and her ear.

“Mimi?” he prodded after a moment, to no effect.

And then he heard a sniffle.

He voice fell at once. “What’s wrong?”

“Idnwkmj,” she said, and he panicked.

“You’re having a stroke,” he declared. “All right—that’s—um—okay, don’t worry—I’ll just—,”

She jerked her chin to the side and whispered, “I don’t like my job.”

“—okay, I’m gonna get —oh,” he interrupted himself, blinking quickly. “Is it the busboys?”

She hadn’t heard him, recounting in a steadily rising rush, “Every day it’s another thing. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a background in restaurants, I’ve never worked on a line like this, I thought there’d be a chance to shadow work or spend time studying but I don’t even have a chance to take any notes, everything moves so fast and I’m not just a step behind, _I’m worse_ , and Chef isn’t being unfair or mean, but I can tell he’s running out of patience and so is the rest of the staff, everyone treats me like I’m not supposed to be there or that I’m not trying, but I _am_ trying, they’re not letting me show them that because everything I do just won’t make them happy, and today I had five people send my desserts back and Chef pulled me out and put me on prep and after we closed I told him I had just needed a break to get back on track, and he told me he had just needed a pastry chef, and then he asked me what I’d do with me if I were him and I got mad and I said I’d probably let me go,” she took a deep breath, eyes watering, “and now he wants me to come in early tomorrow before the rest of the staff gets there.”

She burst into tears and reburied her face in the mattress, letting the phone fall back out of her fingers. She could hear his faint voice calling for her on the other end, tone remarkably even given her rapid outburst, but if she could magic it somehow, she’d turn the phone off, too, unable to face anyone else until tomorrow, if she could even then.

But Taichi was persistent, repeating her name. “Mimi. Mimi, pick up the phone.”

“No,” she wailed.

“Well, at least I know you’re listening.” Just in case, he raised his voice to be sure she could hear him. “Maybe you don’t have the same training as those other snooty pastry bags, but, Mimi, you opened and ran your own business—successfully—for years. You took risks all the time. You still do. You’re braver than you think, and you always have been. You put with Daisuke, for Christ’s sake—try getting this chef character to do that and see how long he lasts.” He laughed at the thought, chuckling to himself before adding, “And if it’s taking you longer to get the hang of things—well, it should! You’ve only been there a few weeks. If you took to it immediately they might’ve carted you off to a secret government lab on account of you being a robot, and then where would I be, without you? They wouldn’t even let me visit, I’d bet. I once mailed my dad a plaster cast of the Prime Minister’s happy parts—they’d _never_ give me clearance.”

She snorted a choking giggle, tears coming to an abrupt stop.

He grinned, “And you know what else?”

She hiccupped again.

“You don’t need me to tell you any of this.”

She smiled, curled up on her side, and pulled the phone closer at last. “But I like it when you do.”

“I knew flattery was the only reason you kept me around.”

She rubbed the wet streaks from her face, the relief that came with releasing so much bottled stress and heartache lifting her spirits with the pleasure of knowing he was still there. “One of the reasons.”

“That, plus my sharp wit.”

“The funny way you walk.”

“My lusty smil—hey, wait a minute—,”

“And your cute butt,” she laughed.

He stopped at once. “I’m sorry?” he stammered, genuinely thrown.

“That’s how I noticed you walk funny.”

“Well, this is an incredibly inappropriate conversation, and I’ll also add mildly insulting.”

“Miyako agrees with me.”

“Mimi!”

“And Daisuke says that—,”

“Quit talking to Daisuke about my butt!”

“Well, who else am I supposed to talk to about it?”

Taichi sputtered in disbelief, “No one!”

She grew serious. “That’s not possible. I tell everyone everything.”

He rubbed his temples tiredly. “Then can you tell yourself that you deserve to be there, and that as far as superheroes go, you’re kind of a dream?”

Her cheeks turned a dark pink, the blush electrifying every inch of her skin. She shut her eyes to better imagine him there with her, suddenly hating the very dependence on the phone. What a torturous crutch it was—to hear and speak, and nothing more.

She whispered, “What if I come into work tomorrow, and he lets me go?”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

She chewed her lip, nose wrinkled. Finally, she pulled herself back up at last, eyes open and back straight and chin raised. “I knew it was going to be hard. I guess I just thought I’d handle it better.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. Trust me, it’ll be better. You’re too much of a fighter for it to not go up from here.” There were the sounds of clothing rustling and a door opening, and then his voice returned to the phone. “Though I bet I didn’t do much to help even things out for you with that text, did I?”

Mimi smiled, shrugging a little. “All this other stuff that’s happening was just why I took so long to answer you, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have at all.” She paused, mind clear enough to reconsider the message and its related meaning. “Why were you thinking about garlic anyway?”

He smirked. “You remember when you taught me how to peel garlic?”

“I remember when I failed teaching you how to peel garlic,” she corrected. “That’s why I got you that peeler.”

His laugh was contagious. “Thing is, I’m a real slow learner about these things.”

“No, Tai, I think you just want to be slow at it.”

“How do you mean?” he asked, curiosity manifesting itself.

“I think you’re already looking for the reason you’ll get left behind again.”

He sucked in his breath, strung. “Mimi—,”

But she continued calmly, not letting him have the chance to interrupt, “I think you’re trying to prepare yourself, or protect yourself, because I think you believe that’s what will happen to you eventually, because it happened before, and you didn’t prepare for it last time. And you think if you try to lay out the reasons and explanations now, you’ll handle it better.”

She had spoken him into a strange silence, but she knew there hadn’t been any choice. Still, she gave him a while to think through what she’d said, to bring the words together into something new, another start to the conversation they had consistently avoided since she found him broken on the floor of her old shop.

She spoke carefully, placing each word between them like stepping stones. “I can’t tell you not to worry, or not to doubt this, and I can’t tell you how to let everything that happened go. I can only tell you that I like you. I like you right now, and that’s all there is.”

His breath came shortly, low and steady. She couldn’t read it well, and so she sat back against the pillows on her bed and waited with something like nervousness and apprehension, wondering if she had been too severe and too sudden.

At last, Taichi spoke. “What if there is something else one day?”

Her chest tightened at his words, and the courage it took for someone like him to ask them.

“And what if there’s not?”

He laughed again, strained but not insincere. “Well, you got me there.”

“You should probably get used to that.”

“What, you getting me?”

“I think I already did.”

“I think you did, too.”

“Then, okay,” she smiled.

“Okay.”

“Stop repeating me.”

“Stop being repeatable.”

She laughed aloud, “You want something worth repeating?”

“I believe I do.”

She made the exaggerated gesture of taking and holding a deep breath. “Next Friday, rain or shine, I’m coming down early to see you, and I won’t tell anyone else I’m there.”

“I won’t have to share you?

“Not even with Daisuke.”

Taichi grinned, “That clinches it then. We’re going on a date next Friday.”

“Mm-hm. We’re going on a date next Friday.”

“Oh, jeez.” His sigh was like a low, tortuous groan. “Say it again.”

“We’re going on a date next Friday,” she giggled.

Another whimper. “Again.”

And this time she whispered it, as huskily as possible, “We’re going on a date next Friday.”

“Okay,” he said at last. “If I hear you say that one more time, there’s no telling what I’ll do, so I have to go.”

So she yelled at the top of her lungs, “ _We’re going on a date_ —!”

There was an equally loud but far more inarticulate howl of protest, and then the line cut off. She sat up, grinning, and tossed the phone away from her on the mattress, standing up to stretch. Smoothing back her hair, she glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the somewhat early hour.

What came tomorrow, would come tomorrow.

Today still belonged to her, to him, and to them.

So she moved quickly, shaking out of her pajama bottoms and top and pulling on a light cotton floral shirt over denim shorts, pulling her hair up into a loose ponytail. If she moved fast enough, she could still make it for at least one drink with Miyako, Daisuke, and Michael at the bar, maybe apologize for being so short with them earlier. And then in the morning she’d—

The phone buzzed, and she stopped in the middle of applying a coat of mascara, frowning through one open eye at the device. Capping the tube quickly, she crossed the room and turned the mobile over, bending over to look at the screen. When she saw who it was, she grinned, picking up the phone to unlock it.

**_Hey, it’s Yamato. I have no idea what this means, but Tai wanted me to tell you: “say it again”. (???)_ **

She shook her head, lips pressed together to swallow back the laugh, and before she could respond, he had followed up with another message.

**_I don’t want to know, do I? Tell me my innocence is still safe._ **

**_Hahaha you’re safe. He’s just being silly. But can I pass a message back to him?_ **

His response was as politely dry as expected.

**_There’s this thing called a phone you guys might want to try._ **

**_What, and not spoil your day by interrupting your plans to force you to play along?_ **

**_You really are his girl._ **

She squeaked out an embarrassed goodbye, to which Yamato smirked, forwarding on her message to his best friend by text. His amusement at doing so caught the attention of redheaded woman standing beside him, her brow rising as she shifted the weight of the grocery bag in her arms.

“What’s so funny?”

“These two,” said Yamato, gesturing to his phone’s screen. Sora caught only the bolded name of the sender and rolled her eyes, though a smile seemed to plant itself permanently on her lips at the sight just the same.

“Can I say it’s about time?”

“You saw this coming?”

Sora shrugged, waiting for Yamato to wiggle the apartment key into the lock and following him inside after he’d opened the door. “Not exactly. I’ve just never seen him want to talk to somebody as much as he does with her. Even when they first became friends—I thought it was because he wanted something different to distract him, but now I think—what’s wrong?”

He had stopped in the hallway so suddenly she’d knocked into him, but he had barely reacted to her stumbling. Stepping back, she peered around his arm and into the dark apartment. “What is it?” she asked, curious.

Yamato, devoid of feeling in this moment of numb realization, only said, “Socks.”

Confused, Sora immediately looked at their own feet, but then he was speaking again, in a thin voice.

“Sora, he’s covered the apartment in socks.”

Her face drained as she saw at last what lay before them: a small, rounded wave of fabric covered every inch of surface of the main apartment, neatly arranged to fit exactly together so not one speck of floor remained untouched. The blanket of socks spread in every direction before them, ominous and innocent at the same time.

The couple looked at each other for a silent second, then split into action.

Hoisting her bag of groceries closer to her, she hurled towards the kitchen, while Yamato yanked open the hallway closet—and gaped, horror struck, as an immense wall of cotton, argyle, wool, and synthetic fibers collided with his face, smacking against his head with relentless force. He heard her shrieks of anguished frustration ring through the hallway, and he tripped struggling to return to her side, stumbling back over the torrential flood of socks on the floor. Everywhere were soft blues and stripped reds and suspiciously stained whites balled up in mismatched twosomes, and he felt his mental stability fade to an incoherent numbness.

Sora had finally recovered the ability to form words, and she was yelling in a fantastic rage, “He put socks in the dishwasher! And in the blender! _They’re in the goddamn rice cooker, Yamato_!”

Spotting something peculiar (or more so than the current peculiarity), Yamato interrupted in a daze, “Wait, is that—? Sora, I think he’s left a note.”

Her unfocused rage came to a pause. “A note?”

Yamato produced a folded sheet of lined paper shoved in between the layers of ankle socks stuffed in the blender. He opened it carefully, steeling himself for both the message and Sora’s furious reaction.

“‘Congratulations, you fuckers,’” read the blond in a trying voice. “‘You asked for retaliation when you got married without me, but I will make your wedding reception a truce from further acts of vengeance. See you at my apartment next Friday at eight, and don’t think you can get out of it. Seriously, don’t try me. Congrats again, beyond thrilled for you, can’t wait to give you the toast I would have given had you any shred of decency but I am already over it except not really but I’m just joking or am I? Love, Tai. P.S. Please don’t throw away the socks, I ran out of money and had to use some of my own. If you find the orange ones with the cartoon walruses please bring them with you next week, they were a present from Hikari. P.P.S. Also bring any black ones, I need them for work. P.P.P.S. That’s okay, I can use my next paycheck.’” Yamato turned over the paper. “‘P.P.P.P.S. You’d better just bring them all back.’”

There was a long moment before either of them spoke, lost in the unimaginable moment.

After a while, Sora took a deep breath, voice remarkably even given her reaction only moments before. Her wild, fiery eyes met his own cool blues. “We’re not bringing any of them back.”

“None,” agreed Yamato.


	24. We’ll go home and start again

When she had imagined how it would end, she had not pictured what remained before her.

Outfitted in what she suspected was every last glittery gold decoration left in the local party supply store, the apartment had been temporarily transformed into an absurdist’s vision of wedding clichés, meant no doubt to clash with all of her own fashion-consciousness sensibilities. Paper bells hung from the ceiling, a banner hung over the folding table set up for drinks, and poorly inflated balloons lingered the confetti strewn floor. It was a general mess, the kind of wildly colorful set meant for small toddler birthday parties, but she supposed this, too, was a kind of retaliation for their elopement. She figured they deserved some of the ridicule and put up with it, having to admit that the series of silly games and activities they’d played earlier in the evening were sort of fun (forcing Yamato to wear a party bridal veil, after losing at one of the games, was a particularly wonderful treat; it was ridiculous how he still was able to pull it off, so much so that the men made him remove when it became clear the intended humiliation only ended up making him more attractive).

Now, however, late into the evening, the guests had dwindled down to only a few faces, all familiar and most good friends. Her mother had just left, accompanied also by Yamato’s parents, and Yamato had gone to escort the trio down to the lobby and a waiting taxi. In the living room, Koushiro was flipping through the Polaroid snapshots Hikari had taken over the course of the evening with the instant camera she’d brought. Just past the balcony doors, Willis was pointing something out in the distant skyline to Miyako, while Takeru and Daisuke shouted obscenities at the evidently terrible referee of the football match on the television. It was a very small screen and so they had clumped together tight to keep a good view, shoulders knocking against one another and cans of beer sloshing most of their contents onto the small coffee table and the one good rug in the apartment. She did not expect that Taichi would notice, but she also did not expect he’d care. 

That was, of course, assuming she could even find her alleged best friend.

But somehow in the middle of all the goodbyes and departures of most of the party’s attendees, the host had disappeared among them, leaving the last handful of stragglers and squatters behind in his apartment.

Frowning, Sora set her empty glass of wine into the kitchen sink and returned to the living room. She came to a pause next to the sofa, crossing her arms over her chest and scrutinizing the small apartment carefully, confused about the strange absence. She peered down the hallway to the bedroom, though the door remained closed as it had been all evening. The bathroom was also empty, and the balcony, tiny as it was, only had enough room for the pair who remained there, chatting somewhat animatedly, though even from here Sora could see that Miyako’s face was taut with distraction.

She looked up at her now, meeting the redhead’s gaze, and seized the opportunity to get away, dipping back into the apartment with barely a warning to Willis, leaving him in mid-word. She slipped into the living room and reached Sora’s side in the next moment, not noticing Willis walking back into the apartment, too.

“Something wrong?” Miyako asked in a tone that did not suggest she was particularly invested in the answer. Sora thought she should ask the woman the same question but decided not to call attention to the bespectacled girl’s nervous manner, not knowing her well enough to be as blunt as she might have been had the rumors circulating the small group been about a couple she knew better than Taichi’s newest friends.

So instead she smiled warmly at her. “No, everything’s fine. I was just looking for Taichi,” explained Sora.

Miyako nodded, turning her phone over and over in her hands. “Willis said something about ice.”

“I’m sorry?” asked Sora, not sure how to connect the dots.

Miyako waved an absentminded hand, oblivious in a way that struck Sora as familiar though she couldn’t put a finger on how. “Ice, for the drinks. We’re running low.”

“Oh, of course,” and Sora glanced at the table set up to hold the copious amounts of liquor acquired for the night. “I guess that makes sen—,”

“You know what doesn’t make sense?” interrupted Miyako, babbling. “How Yamato and Sora can just know—like, just _know_ —that this is how they’re going to work and then _work_ to make it, as though it _weren’t_ really just a snap decision that’s going to change their lives completely.”

Sora opened her mouth again. “Um—well, I am Sora, so I—?”

“I’ll figure it out,” announced Miyako before turning towards the bathroom.

Brow crinkled, Sora did not hear the apartment door open and shut behind her. She jumped slightly when a soft hand lightly touched her elbow with quiet affection, looking up to see Yamato had returned. Noticing his small smile, she slipped her fingers into his and said, “If you’re tired, we can leave.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s wise to leave without saying goodbye to Taichi first, or else we risk ending the ceasefire.”

The mere mention of last week’s prank colored her cheeks with an annoyed blush. “Don’t think I haven’t got plenty of comebacks lined up my sleeve.”

“We should probably save those for the inevitable future disaster,” advised Yamato, ever the peacemaker. “But anyway, he should be back soon with the ice.”

“Oh, so he did go out?”

“A while ago,” observed Yamato after a glance at his wristwatch.

“I didn’t even see him leave,” said Sora.

He wrinkled his nose. “You don’t think—?”

“—that he’s up to something? Always.”

“What does it say about us that our natural state of friendship is suspicion?”

“It means we’ve been friends too long.”

Letting go of her hand, he pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “Maybe I’ll give him a call to be sure.”

A new voice spoke up. “If you’re talking about calling Taichi, he forgot his phone in the kitchen,” said Hikari, restacking her Polaroid photos to show the couple as she approached. 

Yamato sighed, “Seriously?”

“He did it on purpose,” declared Sora with narrowed eyes.

Hikari only laughed, far too used to her brother’s antics with his friends, or, rather, their deep seated distrust of his antics. “Did you need him for something?” she asked, moving to Yamato’s other side so she could lean against the back of the sofa next to Willis. He laced an arm around her shoulders when she came near, while Koushiro lifted the last beer bottle from the (empty) ice bucket before joining the small group.

“After last week, I just don’t like not knowing what he’s up to,” said Sora.

“Maybe he’s not up to anything,” suggested Koushiro, twisting off the cap of his drink.

They fell silent.

“Did you text Mimi?” asked Hikari suddenly, at the same time that Yamato murmured, “Maybe I’ll ask Mimi if she’s heard anything,” and Koushiro advised, “If you really want him to spill, just get Mimi involved,” and Sora warned, “Mimi’s probably in on it, too, by now!” and Takeru called over the television volume as the game went into to halftime to say, “Are we talking about Taichi’s secrets? I’ll bet Mimi knows them,” and Daisuke, turning around on his seat on the sofa, interrupted, “What’s this about Mimi?” while Miyako reappeared from the bathroom to demand, “Where’s Mimi?” and Willis observed the entire burst of fixated attention with an under-his-breath suggestion that perhaps wherever talk of Mimi was, talk of Taichi couldn’t be all that far behind.

And then Yamato was waving his hand in annoyance and they became quiet again (Takeru, curious, lowered the monitor volume to mute), waiting for news. But he only listened with grim silence and did not speak into his phone, finally hanging up with a shake of his blond head. “No answer.”

“That just proves it,” said Sora, even more on hyper alert than before.

“It proves she’s at work,” pointed out Koushiro.

“That’s not helpful, Kou,” bristled Sora.

He paused with his drink mid-raised to his lips, confounded. “That’s—but that’s _exactly_ what helpful is for knowing where she is during a work night—?” but he stopped talking at once when he saw the look she gave him for trying to correct her.

Willis rolled his eyes with an amused sigh. “You gotta learn to read the room, Izumi.”

Hikari shook her head, smiling lightly, and continued to play with the stack of Polaroids in her hands. “I’m sure he’s just got distracted on the way to the convenience store. When’s the last time he did exactly as he was told in the time he was told to do it?”

“You’ve known him the longest,” shrugged Daisuke after no one answered her. He stood from the sofa and stretched, hand rubbing the stitch in his neck that had formed from bending it too long in that awkward angle to yell at the screen. Then he paused, narrowing his eyes. “Unless you’re in on it, too.”

“Let’s not jump to the conclusion that there’s anything to be in on,” interrupted Willis, rising to his girlfriend’s defense.

Takeru agreed, still lounging back on the couch, “I get that that’s natural when it comes to Taichi, but not with Mimi.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” boasted Daisuke, sauntering around the furniture to snuggle up next to a distracted Miyako. “You all don’t know what she can be like sometimes, but do I. I’ve known her the longest. I’m her Hikari.”

Miyako shook her head, adjusting her glasses nervously. “Yes,” she said, avoiding looking at him, “but it wasn’t on your phone that she left a ten minute voice message the last time Taichi wore a new pair of jeans.”

Hikari blanched, the photos collapsing into an unsorted mess between her fingers. “Please don’t tell me things like that about them.”

“Does that mean they’re a ‘them’ now?” asked Willis, rubbing Hikari’s lower back to soothe her discomfort.

“What else could they be?” pointed out Takeru.

“They’ve not told us anything directly though,” said Koushiro. Then he glanced at Miyako, “Unless there are other kinds of voice messages Mimi leaves you.”

She pursed her lips. “Well, there are more, but I don’t think they’re good to share in polite company.”

Hikari groaned, turning so that her face was now pressed into Willis’ shoulder.

“She gets that from me,” winked Daisuke to an unimpressed (and uninterested) Yamato, while Miyako pinched her nose and sighed, eyes shut.

“No one’s getting anything,” said Sora with a flourish of authority so believable that it took a moment for Hikari to catch the double entendre and squeak out another protest, ears pink. “I mean, they just can’t be,” protested Sora upon seeing the younger woman’s flustered embarrassment. “Taichi said they’ve not seen each other since she moved to her new job. Besides, we’re their friends. We would know.”

“But how would we know whether they get anything?” asked Koushiro, speaking with a clarity of logic that did not do much to help the others in their squirming. “These days there are all sorts of ways to—,”

“I’m going to just get my own ice,” announced Hikari suddenly, lurching back from the group.

Takeru called after her, “Can you get some more of those puffy cheese snacks?”

“And beer!” yelled Daisuke. He poked Miyako in the side. “Whichever kind the lady likes.”

“I don’t want any!” protested Miyako at once, panicked, and Koushiro raised an eyebrow.

“You haven’t wanted any all night,” he pointed out, wondering aloud. “It’s almost like you—,”

Willis clamped a hand on the man’s arm and yanked him back, stumbling with him to the couch were Takeru scooted over for them. “The room, Izumi, the room. Read. It.”

Takeru leaned over to the blond, the corner of his mouth curling mischievously. “You noticed that, too?”

Willis just winked back, while Daisuke realized for himself that his otherwise alcohol-friendly girlfriend had been sticking to water all night, and had been for many of the past nights, too. He wrinkled his nose, looking her up and down. “Wait—are you trying to lose weight or something?”

Miyako’s face colored at once, Sora smacked a hand to her forehead, and Yamato flinched, physically shuddering at the lack of tact being displayed by another human being.

Before anyone could stop him, Daisuke went on, “You don’t have to just for me, you know. I like girls who are healthier down on the lower side—,”

Koushiro looked somewhat vindicated for his inability to gauge the temperature of a social conversation, while Miyako at last recovered her voice to burst loudly, taking everyone by surprise at her shrill tone, “That’s just too bad, because nothing will ever be the same down there now, will it?” and dashed back down the hallway, locking herself in the bedroom this time.

Daisuke gaped after her. “Down—what—? What did I say?”

“For once, Daisuke,” suggested Yamato calmly, “I think this might not be about you.”

“No, just half of it is about you,” said Willis, earning a snort of laughter from Takeru.

Still looking puzzled but more bewildered by Miyako’s reaction than by the others’ remarks, Daisuke left them behind to head off towards the hallway, lowering his voice as he called to her from the other side of the bedroom door.

Hikari cleared her throat, gazed fixed on the sparring couple in the hallway. “Maybe we should give them a few minutes.”

“But what if Taichi comes back and sees we’re all gone?” asked Sora.

“I’ll stay back,” volunteered Takeru, eyeing how Miyako, after finally giving in, cracked open the door just enough for Daisuke to slip inside with her before slamming it shut again. “Plus the second half of the game is about to start.”

“You just want to stay so you can eavesdrop,” concluded Koushiro, earning a dispiriting look in response.

“Whose side are you on?” asked Takeru, wounded.

Yamato swooped in to twist the back of his brother’s collar and pull him up from the couch. “The side of respect and civility. Come on, you’re going with us to the store.”

He tried to protest, struggling to shake off the elder’s unconventionally strong hold, “I’m too old for family outings—,”

Hikari brightened, realizing, “Oh, I bet we’ll run into Taichi on the way, right?”

Sora agreed, “And preemptively stop whatever he’s trying to pull off!”

“Unless this is what he wants us to do, and why he’s been gone so long, waiting to lure us out,” suggested Koushiro.

Her expression froze, astonished by the suggestion. Then she blinked, shaking her head. “That’s too clever for him.”

Yamato shook his head, folding his free arm around Sora’s waist and pulling her and Takeru to the door. “We’re all going. I’m sure Taichi will be there. It’s not a trap.”

And it might have been the authoritative way he could bark out simple sentences with astonishingly quiet confidence, but soon they all found themselves following suit, pulling on jackets and shoes and walking out of the apartment, weighing the likelihood that they were all doomed for being friends with a renowned prankster but too motivated by the thought of either striking first or getting one final round of beverages to care either way. Willis left the door unlocked behind them just in case, rounding up the rear of the small party of travelers to the convenience store on the next corner, though Sora convinced them to take the stairs in light of all the calories and sugars they’d consumed. This only elicited more protest from a lazy-feeling Takeru, who was marched along at the front of the group by his commanding older brother, while Hikari kept her eyes peeled for any sign of her sibling, too.

Perhaps if she had been looking more carefully, or indeed if she had only turned back even once, she might have seen the elevator slide open just as the door to the stairwell closed behind them. Instead, the corridor was empty when Taichi lugged the suitcase out and Mimi gingerly stepped from the lift, looking up and down the hallway.

“I thought I heard voices,” she said, forehead crinkled. “You’re sure it’s over?”

“Definitely,” said Taichi. “I could tell Yamato and Sora were ready when their parents finally left, and no one’s gonna stay after they go.” Mimi was not convinced, so he added, “Plus I emptied the ice bucket early so the drinks wouldn’t stay cold. People always leave then the drinks run out. Trust me, I’ve done this before when I wanted a party to end.”

She laughed, not even trying to pretend to disapprove. “And then you tell people you’re going to get more ice—,”

“—and never come back, exactly. Works like a charm.” He pulled the rolling suitcase upright, letting go of the handle and making an exaggerated gesture of stretching his arms to prepare to carry the luggage further. “What did you bring anyway?”

“I had to be prepared for all circumstances,” she insisted, shouldering her purse again. “You won’t tell me what we’re doing this weekend.”

He cocked his head to the side, grinning at her. “Well, there’s at least one thing.”

Her lips pursed, she raised her chin. “I happen to be a respectable woman, Taichi.”

“Remember the last time you were here, and I found you peeping into an old lady’s apartment?”

Mimi jumped, alarmed, looking about the apartment complex. “Oh, please tell me she’s moved away—,”

“Nope, still here. If you go to the lobby, you’ll see a warning sign she posted down there about a female trespasser with pretty hazel eyes and a fetish for windows.”

He expected another bristling retort, but instead, her smile was smug. “You think my eyes are pretty?”

Taichi stuck out his tongue. “Weren’t you listening? That’s how she described you to the sketch artist.”

“You think my eyes are pretty!” she repeated, crooning, jerking her chin out to grin up at him. “You do! You think I’m—,” but she stopped when his hand settled into the small of her back and pulled her close, and she fell into him with her hands braced against his chest.

He looked at her with an intensity that made her breathless, his voice soft. “I already told you, Mimi. I have no problem with people knowing I think you’re beautiful.”

She felt her heart beating through her skin, her gaze fixated on his lips. “I know I’m beautiful, too.”

He chuckled, and she could feel the movement of his chest under her fingertips. “And do you know that I’ve been waiting all week to kiss you?”

“Mm-hm,” she nodded, breathless at the anticipation.

“And you’re not going to go all young adult vampire novel on me if I do?”

“Not twice,” she whispered.

“Good,” he whispered back, taking his time to graze his lips against the tip of her earlobe as he added, “because I don’t particularly like the idea of the almost one in your kitchen counting as the first one.”

She grinned against his cheek, turning her face towards his. “Well, I think it’s funny that you keep saying ‘first’ like you’ve just assumed there was going to be another.”

She braced herself for his rumbling laughter and cocky response but was startled to see his face pale with a trace of green. Panicked, she grabbed him by the arm. “I’m kidding! Taichi, it’s a joke!”

His eyes remained as wide as saucers, unblinking. “What—why would you—why would you joke about something like that?”

She swallowed the instinct to laugh. “I’m sorry. That was too mean.”

“It was,” he murmured, rubbing his face as though he were trying to shake the shock away. “It was really mean.” He stepped back to demonstrate his disapproval. “Switching jobs is bringing out a side of you I’m not all that fond of.”

 Her eyebrow arched. “I’m supposed to believe there’s a side of me you don’t like?”

He deflated. “Don’t you pull that card on me.”

She giggled, brushing her hair back from her shoulders. “Okay. Tell me how to make it up to you?”

“I don’t think you’ve got it in you,” he said, then quickly turned around to grab the handle of her suitcase and roll off down the corridor.

“Not even if I gave you a do-over?” she asked, trailing after him as he quickened his pace.

“Nope. We’ll just have to live with it and move on.”

“I refuse to accept that,” she interrupted, stopping outside his apartment door.

He laughed, letting go of the luggage and sifting in his coat pocket for the keys. “Oh, yeah? Give me one reason why I—,”

She grasped his face and pulled him close, and the keys fell to the floor with a loud echoing smash, but he didn’t hear the noise, the thoughts in his head rendered an intoxicated mess. Fingers curled around the collar of his shirt, holding tight, she smiled. “Because that wasn’t how you were supposed to kiss me,” she said.

“Then how should I kiss you?” he asked, nose to nose.

“Like every time is the first time.”

Laughing, he had only just begun to move for the kiss, the real one this time, when the door flew open, and they froze, unfulfilled. Hands grasped him by the shoulders, but before Taichi could even react, he was swept into another far more vocal chaos.

“ _Little—life—small—mine—we—ours—two—_ ,” came the inarticulate wails, and a rush of muscled maroon launched itself onto Taichi’s unsuspecting frame, bowling him over and onto the floor of the hallway with a painful thud.

There was another shriek, and Mimi looked up just in time to see a flurry of limbs throw themselves around her neck and squeeze the air from her lungs. She stumbled back from the shock, tripped over a prostrate leg behind her on the ground, and fell over. Pressed into a mess of energetic sounds and manic thrashing, Mimi managed to grab a hold of one of the hallway railings and pull herself upright to a sitting position. She grasped the other hands and pushed back in a last bit of adrenaline-inspired panic, only to see that Miyako’s glasses were missing and her lipstick had come smearing off down her chin and neck, and her eyes were shining brighter than they’d ever been before.

Mimi opened her mouth, stunned, as another hand lashed out and smacked her in the nose in what was a poorly miscalculated attempt to reach for an embrace. She yelped in pain, blinking the stars from her eyes, and Taichi, alerted to the squeal, finally managed to wriggle himself free of the suffocating hug attack to reach out for her, his hand slipping against the back of her neck and thumb moving to tilt her chin up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, coughing and still trying to wrestle the other weight off of him, searching her for signs of distress.

She had a hand covering her stinging nose, disoriented, but when she looked down to yell at the other person in their four-layer hug sandwich, she felt an entirely different kind of discomfort.

“Oh, come on!” she cried, kicking Miyako off of her at last as Taichi also scrambled to his feet.

Breathing hard, the pair looked down at the couple making out furiously on the floor of the hallway.

“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded a Taichi too startled to be angry.

“ _Life_!” choked Daisuke, his fingers pushing under the hem of Miyako’s skirt and mouth pressed to her neck, causing her to shriek with laughter.

“You two stop that! Right now!” and Mimi stamped her foot on the back of Daisuke’s shirt, pinning him down to the floor so he couldn’t wiggle around anymore. “We’re in public!”

“ _You’re in public_ ,” chorused the sloppily love-drunk couple, utterly unfocused, and Mimi gave up, recoiling.

Taichi took her hand, pulled her into the apartment, and kicked the door shut as the two stumbled away from the scene. They stared at the closed door in silence, lost, until Taichi spoke up, voice low, “Did I miss something?”

Mimi took a deep breath. “I guess she finally told him she’s pregnant.”

He choked, double-taking, neck twisting suddenly to gape at her. “She’s—but— _how_?”

She glanced at him, a single eyebrow arched in perfect disbelief. “You might be spending too much time around Daisuke.”

He gestured to the hallway again. “Clearly not as much time as Miyako.”

Her eyes widened. “My suitcase! All my clothes and shoes—!”

He interrupted at once before she could even finish complaining, “I’m not going out there again.”

“But, Tai—,”

“Nuh-uh,” he shook his head hard. “They were your friends first.”

“That’s a cheap shot!”

“You’re gonna have to get used to cheap things with me,” and, as though looking for supporting evidence, he motioned around the apartment, and Mimi realized for the first time where she was standing.

Her mouth fell open, hazel eyes swiveling around to each increasingly visually offending piece of decoration. “What…did you do?”

“I think it looks nice,” admitted Taichi, somewhat proud. “Especially given the short notice of the party in the first place.”

Without a word (perhaps because there were none), Mimi let go of his hand and bent over to drag a finger along the carpeted corner of the living room wall, lifting up a thick swab of glittery confetti in shapes of wedding bells, variously sized spheres, four-leaf clovers, pumpkins, hearts, and tiny gold penises. Her eyes shot up to meet his, horrified, and Taichi grinned.

“It’s crazy the things people leave in the discount bins,” he said.

Flicking the confetti off her hand like they were dangerous harbingers of disease and turmoil, Mimi shook her hand and wandered about the living room, gazing up at the hastily tacked banner on the wall and the empty drink table, where the remnants of the various games played earlier still remained, props and all. She paused at the ice bucket. “You weren’t lying about the ice trick,” she murmured, amazed.

“Why would I?” asked Taichi, approaching her from behind. “I’m telling you, it works every single ti—,”

A chorus of startled yells interrupted them, and Mimi had no chance to prepare herself for the apartment door swinging open and everyone she did not want to see appeared suddenly in the entranceway.

“—not appropriate,” Sora had just finished declaring, shuddering, while Takeru tumbled in after her, holding his stomach from laughter with one hand while his other grasped the neck of a bottle of cheap champagne. “That poor neighbor’s face when she tried to see what all the noise was in the hallway!”

“Amazing,” agreed Takeru, earning a look of disapproval that was too eerily like his brother’s to be of comfort. But he didn’t respond to it, stopping mid-word when he saw the scene before them.

Sora realized it, too, exclaiming, “Mimi—you’re in town?”

 “Oh, ho, ho,” whistled Takeru, recovering from the surprise as he swiveled his head between grinning wickedly at Taichi and Mimi. “What do we have here?”

“I knew it!” said Hikari, happily, the next to walk inside, her arms laden with paper grocery bags.

“You knew that we’d return to a bed of religious sin?” asked Willis, suppressing a shudder as he came in after her, with Koushiro trailing behind and looking quite nauseous from the distressing scene outside Taichi’s apartment door, which Yamato took care to shut firmly, sequestering the group from further mental damage. “Honestly, how is it possible to _kiss_ loudly?”

As if in direct response, there was then a squeamish kick to the door and the group collectively winced, but before anyone else could remark on what to do with the crisis outside, Koushiro spoke up to break the spell.

“Mimi, what are you doing here so late?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Willis scrunched up his face with resolution, silently vowing to never remind anyone about any room-reading again, as they all stared at the woman in question. She jumped in alarm, as though she had hoped she wouldn’t be spotted if she stood still enough, despite standing in plain view of the open door. “Um—,”

“That’s where you went? To pick her up from the station?” interrupted Hikari, looking up at her brother expectantly.

“I knew there was something going on,” declared Sora.

 “And you didn’t even get the ice!” noticed Takeru at last, finding a whole new reason to be personally offended.

Taichi saw his chance and jumped for it. “No, I didn’t, because it’s too late anyway. Everyone’s tired—,”

“I’m not tired,” said Koushiro. “Tell us all about your apprenticeship, Mimi.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Hikari cheerfully. “I haven’t heard much besides what Taichi says. Have you enjoyed it so far?”

“Um—,”

Taichi tried again, “She just got in, it’s been a long day—,”

“What, we can’t ask your girlfriend questions now?” asked Willis, and Taichi nearly bit through his tongue.

“That’s not—,” he insisted, red-faced while Mimi cried at the same time, “Oh, we’re not—,” and Taichi added, “This isn’t—,” as Mimi protested, “It’s just—,” and then they stopped, helpless, as the group stared back with mirroring, serene smiles.

Mimi took a deep breath, exchanging a silent look with Taichi before shaking her head clear of any thoughts and putting on her most calm face. “You know, it really has been a long day. I think—I mean, I could really just use a—a quiet—quiet night, you know, with all the jet lag and—,”

“Jet lag?” repeated Koushiro, bewildered. “You took the train.”

As Mimi resisted the malicious urge to flick his forehead, Taichi interrupted. “It is getting pretty late—,”

“—which is why we brought one last round to top of the night,” boasted Takeru with unchecked enthusiasm. He gestured with the champagne bottle again. “One drink, all?”

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” said Sora, smiling widely with a glint to her eyes that did nothing to comfort Taichi.

“Me, too,” agreed Yamato, meeting his best friend’s gaze calmly. “Unless there’s a reason we should—?”

“No,” interrupted Taichi quickly (not noticing the sudden trace of green on his sister’s face as she paled at the suggestion, paired as it was with another well-timed kick and shuffle outside the apartment door). He took a deep breath, evening his words. “I mean, sure,” he said, not trusting his annoyance levels enough to speak more than a syllable at a time.

Yamato smirked, taking the bottle from his brother’s hand and moving into the kitchen.

“Should I invite the others back in?” asked Koushiro, nodding at the door.

Willis turned in the direction of the front hallway, nose scrunched as he weighed the options. “I don’t think they’d stop themselves with or without company present.”

“We have such classy friends,” sighed Takeru.

“It’s not their fault,” defended Taichi, resigning himself to the turn of events for the night. He flopped down onto his couch, watching Mimi float into the kitchen to help Yamato with the glasses. “I can’t imagine I’d react any differently if it were me.”

“React to what?” asked Sora, moving to seat herself on the arm of the sofa.

Taichi waved a hand dismissively. “The baby.”

The cap of the champagne bottle popped off with a loud bang, coinciding with a group expletive as everyone turned on him once again. “Miyako’s pregnant?” gasped Hikari, hand over her mouth.

“And we just left a pregnant woman out on the floor of an apartment building hallway?” cried Sora, leaping to her feet.

“Oh—no, I wouldn’t open that if I were you,” Willis tried to warn, but neither needn’t have bothered, for in that moment the door flew open yet again, and a disheveled Daisuke with his shirt untucked and hastily re-buttoned (wrongly) with a giggling Miyako attached to his side returned to the group to declare, “We’re moving!”

“Not here,” was Taichi’s automatic answer, and Sora smacked his shoulder.

“A new place,” beamed Daisuke, breathless.

“A bigger place,” added Miyako, her glasses still missing.

“More space,” said Daisuke.

“All the space,” sighed Miyako.

(“Is rhyming a sign of a stroke?” Willis asked Koushiro, who shrugged.)

“Congratulations, you two!” gushed Hikari, the first to rush forward, her arms around Miyako’s neck (an awkward feat, given that Daisuke would not release his own arm around her). “I can’t believe this—so unexpected, but so wonderful!”

“Yeah, that apartment is way too small,” agreed Takeru, grinning anyway. “But you’ve still got lots of time to sort out those details.”

“No, I want to get started right off,” interrupted Daisuke, the determination like a thin sheen of resilience across his bright mahogany eyes. “We’re heading out—sorry, Yamato, Sora, but whatever, congrats and all that, I guess—because we’ve got to plan all the—,” and he stopped, starting at who Yamato was indeed standing next to in the kitchen. He blinked slowly. “Mimi? What are you doing here?” He lowered his voice, “Were you always here?”

She stared back, stunned. “We were just out in the hall, Daisuke.”

“Today?” he asked, puzzled, glancing down at Miyako for confirmation. Blinded as the woman was without her glasses, however, she only shrugged, squinting desperately in the direction she assumed was the kitchen before mumbling, “I don’t see anything there. Is someone there?”

Mimi opened her mouth to respond, confused herself, but hesitated when she noticed Taichi gestured in the back for her to stay silent. Her brow furrowed, she mouthed a “Why?” and he held a finger over his lips to mime silence, waving at the group of people still assembled around the room and pointing at the door.

She got the hint, straightening at once. “Congratulatory toast, don’t you think? Before we all say good night and goodbye?”

“Good night and goodbye, a great sentiment,” echoed Taichi, standing up from the couch again and encouraging the others to regather in the kitchen, speedily ushering them along.

Daisuke suddenly realized, “Wait, is that why there was a suitcase outside? I nearly kicked it over the railing.”

“My shoes!” shrieked Mimi, leaping forward, but Koushiro intervened, “I’ll get it,” and went to the hallway to do so. He retrieved the luggage, still intact and still full of shoes, as far as it was known, and he brought it to the corridor, setting it up outside the bathroom door. He paused then, considering the situation. “Actually, Mimi, if you wanted to leave early instead of staying for the whole party, there are always rooms at the hotel near the local subway station.”

Willis chocked mid-sip, sputtering, while Mimi turned a bright red. “Um, thanks, Kou,” she said carefully. “I’ll think about it.”

“No problem,” he said, delighted to be of help, and Taichi rubbed his face tiredly.

“Right,” he said, biting back a sigh, “final round. Have we all got our champagne?”

 “Who would like some more?” asked Yamato, carefully doling out the assorted cups (for of course Taichi would not have enough of the same kind of glassware).

“None for us,” said Daisuke, waving off the drinks that Hikari tried to pass him. “I am with her all the way on this.”

“Allow me to help you in that not-a-regret-at-all promise, will you?” said Takeru, eagerly lifting up the cup meant for the young chef and pouring its contents into his own.

Daisuke did not notice, preoccupied as he was with the way Miyako kept squinting at everything. “Where are your glasses anyway?” he asked, concerned, pulling her back when she accidently leaned too for over and close the bottle of champagne on the counter, as though being that directly near the scent of alcohol would be damaging in and of itself.

She grumpily retaliated, moody, “You’re the one who flung them off when we fell off Taichi’s bed.”

“My what?” interrupted Taichi, mouth open.

Completely ignoring him, Daisuke turned around and began to move in the direction of the bedroom. “I’ll go check. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Okay,” said Miyako, brightening at once, but was stopped by Mimi before she could go any further.

“Actually, sweetheart,” said Mimi comfortingly, noting the look on Taichi’s face as he realized what the party had turned into without him around earlier, “why don’t you go get your coat? There’s been a lot of excitement today, and you need to rest. I’ll go check inside for you and help you home.”

“Should we call you a cab?” volunteered Koushiro, already removing his phone from his pocket to do so.

Not one to be shown up in public, Daisuke went scrambling for his own phone to beat Koushiro to making the call, while Taichi took advantage of the gap in the group’s attention to slip into the bedroom after Mimi. He shut the door behind them, leaning against it, while Mimi gaped at the mess of the room, clothes and pillows knocked everywhere.

“Oh, my God, they really did use this place,” she exclaimed, stunned.

“Oh, no, this is how it always looks,” reassured Taichi, relieved himself that the proof was so transparent.

This did not comfort Mimi, if it had meant to, so Taichi stepped forward and quickly aired the comforter on the bed, smoothing it flat. “Sit down for a second?”

She smirked, sitting on the edge next to him as they both stared at the closed door, listening to the low voices on the other side.

“It works every single time, does it?” Mimi asked dryly.

Taichi protested, snaking his arm around her waist casually, “It’s just my luck that the ice bucket trick doesn’t take off the one time you’re around.”

“Perhaps the problem lies in the fact that you were trying to trick your friends.”

“I always try to trick my friends. How do you think I got them to be my friends in the first place?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous. They love you way too much. That’s no trick.”

“The real trick will be getting rid of them.”

“Think you can do it?” she asked, turning her head to the side to smile up at him.

He leaned closer, letting his hand trace up the side of her waist to catch a loose strand of hair falling down her back, curling the lock around his fingers. “Wanna bet?”

She settling a hand on his knee, drawing one of her legs up as she turned to face him on the mattress. Wrinkling her nose, she appraised him as though weighing the odds. “What will you give me?” she asked at last.

“What do you want?”

“That elusive first kiss comes to mind,” she suggested off-handedly.

“It’s not exactly left mine,” he admitted, and she lifted her chin, opening her mouth against his to whisper back—

The door prodded open without announcement, and Taichi considered his not immediately annihilating the intruder a miraculous testament to how much he had grown in the past year.

Takeru hovered in the entranceway, waving his glass. “Sorry to ruin your moment, but you’re needed in the parlor, Mimi.”

“In the what?” asked Mimi at the same time that Taichi exclaimed in frustration, “I don’t have a parlor!”

“I guess it’s technically your entranceway,” allowed Takeru, gesturing back into the living room, where Sora had enveloped a still squinty Miyako in what appeared to be a comforting embrace.

Mimi shook her head. “All right, I’m coming.”

Taichi tried to protest, but she easily slipped from under his arm and rose to make her way inside. Takeru allowed her to pass by him, watching her go with a pause, then returned his smirking gaze to the disgruntled man still sitting on the bed.

“You can kiss me if you want,” he offered, and Taichi supplied him with the only rude hand gesture that fit the ridiculing remark.

Takeru laughed, waving him inside. “Come on, let’s get you that last drink.”

“I don’t want a drink. I want you to leave.”

The younger man only wrinkled his nose. “You’re so funny, Taichi. I love your humor.”

“Get out.”

“See? Hilarious.” He jerked his head to the living room. “Come on, there’s one last glass of champagne left, and it’s all yours if you ask nicely.”

“Please get out.”

“Stop it, you’re killing me,” and he mimed raucous laughter.

Grumbling, Taichi pulled himself to his feet, following the younger blond out into the rest of the apartment space, coming to a stop just at the entrance to the kitchen where his sister remained. She was winding a secure rubber band her stack of Polaroids when he approached her, Takeru having returned to the front door where Willis was trying to find his and his girlfriend’s jacket on the coatrack. By the living room couch, Daisuke was being given an apparently serious series of advice statements from Yamato and Koushiro in an attempt to keep him distracted long enough for Mimi to talk privately with Miyako without being bothered by the expecting helicopter partner that was Daisuke.

Nodding at the photographs, Hikari smiled up at Taichi. “I’ll make copies of some of the group ones,” she promised him, though he could barely retain any information in his miserable, exhausted state. “I just have to finish sorting through them at home first.”

“Why not just stay and do it here?” he offered dully, though Hikari did not manage to catch the tone quickly enough.

“I think it’s too late for that,” she said instead, smiling happily despite the content of her statement. And then she grinned. “Though you do seem to be in the habit of making a way out of things that seem like they won’t get there.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked, perking up a little.

She fell still, holding the stack of photographs close to her chest, and studied him carefully. “It means,” she began, “that I am really happy you’re happy, Taichi. I’ve never wanted anything else.”

He nudged an arm around her shoulder and into an awkward one-handed hug. “You’re so cheesy sometimes. Where does that come from?”

“You’re worse than me!” she protested, weaseling out of his clumsy grasp with a laugh. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Will do. Have to sort out the next family dinner anyway.”

“Oh, because you want to see if Mimi could be in town?” teased Hikari so subtly that it took him a minute to get the meaning.

He swatted at her in half-affection. “Go home.”

She lifted herself up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek and ducked out before he could poke her own in response, slipping a hand into Willis’s as the pair said their goodbyes at the door and departed, though not before taking up Koushiro’s offer to share the second cab that had been summoned in the earlier war-of-the-taxi-phone and leaving together as a trio. Yamato held onto Daisuke, keeping him from anxiously rejoining the women until they finished their talk, while Taichi walked back to the younger blond. Takeru had settled himself on the back of the couch, his glass now finished and set down on the floor at his feet, while he re-buttoned his jacket.

“I see what you’re doing, making your rounds to get everyone to leave,” said the younger blond. “I’ll have you know that I’m not that easy. I must be finessed and persuaded, not heaved out.”

“Don’t tempt me, Takaishi.”

“When have I ever?” He grinned, “Besides, now that I know Mimi’s gonna be hanging out there more, you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

“What makes you think I’m gonna let you get away with talking about her like that in front of me?”

Takeru blinked. “So the implication is that I should talk about her like that…not in front of you?”

Taichi’s hand swooped in from the side, but the blond was too quick, still retaining the muscle memory of how fast he had to be back when they were younger and Taichi was more possessively protective of his younger sister in the face of her one-time suitors. Instead, Takeru slipped to the entranceway, sliding into his shoes, and dipped his face around the assembled group of women to plant a kiss on each one’s cheek. “’Night, all,” he said, disappearing before Taichi could lurch forward with another hand raised for coming near Mimi so soon.

He lowered his hand, exasperated, while Mimi looked up at him with a curious glance. Taichi only shook his head, rolling his eyes, listening in as Sora took Miyako’s hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.

“Listen, why don’t you come by our place one weekend, and we can all go out and do things on our own without the men around?” she was offering Miyako now. “Invite your sisters, too. I promise it won’t be as hard to tell your family if you have your friends with you. It’s just the fear of what could be that’s hurting now, but our imaginations are always much bigger than they should be.”

“It’s true,” chirped Mimi, nodding. She rubbed Miyako’s shoulder. “If you tell me which weekend works out for you and your sisters, I’ll be sure to come, too. Okay?”

Miyako nodded slowly, trying to smile. “Okay. That does sound nice.”

“It will be great,” promised Sora. “But you should be getting to bed now. It’s really late.”

Miyako looked up, glancing about for Daisuke. “You’re right, I just have to see if—,”

“Daisuke,” barked Taichi, his loud intervention alerting the women to the fact that they had an eavesdropper, and an anxiously impatient one at that. Before either could protest, the object of their attention, full of instant gratifying relief, pulled himself away from Yamato and rushed forward, bowling past the others to get to Miyako’s side.

“Here—here—here,” he repeated, taking her hand. “Did you find your glasses? Did I really fling them off from your face that hard?”

Sora scrunched up her nose, grimacing, and gestured at the pair to keep moving to the door. “It’s all right, I’m sure Taichi will find them under all this confetti and balloons in the morning. He’ll meet up with you guys tomorrow and return them.”

“He’ll do what?” repeated Taichi, surprised, though Sora ignored him.

“I have another pair at home,” assured Miyako to an anxious Daisuke, who seemed somewhat appeased by this news. “We’ll come back tomorrow and get the other one.”

“Of course,” nodded Sora understandingly, and when Taichi tried to open his mouth to protest, she stamped on his foot and shot a withering glance at him.

The couple was the next to leave, with Daisuke attentively hovering over Miyako’s every move, though not without good reason (at one point Miyako had tried saying goodnight to the coatrack, thinking it was Yamato). Once they’d gone, only the newlyweds remained, their attention focused largely on Mimi.

“You should get some rest, too,” Sora told her now. “I still can’t believe you worked a full shift and then got on a train here.”

“The things you do for people,” shrugged Mimi, smiling, and Taichi felt his face warm with a grin. Swallowing a blush of her own, she raised her chin and added, “I really am happy for you both. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for the party, but I hope we can meet again soon.”

“Sure,” said Yamato. “We’ve got the whole weekend.”

Taichi’s face contorted, and he couldn’t speak, though he didn’t have to. Mimi had grinned in response to Yamato’s comment, promising to be in touch with the two of them, and then excused herself to finally change for the night, pulling her small luggage roller into the bathroom with her. After she’d gone, Sora noted the time to Yamato, who mocked surprise at the late hour if only to continue getting a rile out of Taichi.

“It’s what you get, Taichi,” said Sora.

“For what?” he protested, hands raised. “For throwing you a great wedding reception, completely unasked to do so?”

“Unasked would be right,” said Yamato, smirking.

“But it was wonderful,” interrupted Sora with sincerity this time. She smiled gently, placing a hand on Taichi’s arm and squeezing. “I know we tease and everything, but this was a great evening. Thank you.”

He wiggled her off, grumpy, or trying to be even as small smile snuck its way in. “Don’t try to turn this around. I’m still annoyed with you for volunteering all my time this weekend.”

“Oh, look that! I get to end the night with getting under your skin. Truly, a wonderful party, Taichi.” She kissed his cheek and then turned to her husband, smiling. “I’m going to call for the elevator. See you in the hallway?”

“Just a minute,” promised Yamato, and he waited until she had stepped out to look back at his friend. One hand on the doorknob behind him, Yamato nodded his head towards the bathroom. “Don’t drive her too crazy, will you? I like her.”

“I don’t need your approval,” mumbled Taichi.

“No, but just think of how much easier your life could be if you always had it,” said Yamato.

The remark earned the blond the last rude hand gesture of the night, followed by Taichi attempting to physically shove the taller man out into the hallway by force. Yamato turned easily on his heel, slipping out of his friend’s harsh grasp, unperturbed. Instead, he asked, in a voice that suggested that he never needed to ask, “Coffee tomorrow?”

Taichi bristled. “Nah, you two old coots better get used to being stuck with each other for the rest of your lives. Don’t try scrambling for company this early. It’s not a good sign.”

The teasing did nothing, if it ever had at all. “I’ll call you around two,” Yamato continued, as though he hadn’t heard the original response, “and give you both a little lie in.”

“I won’t answer.”

“Then I’ll call your girlfriend. She likes me better anyway.”

“Your wife likes me better,” he taunted back, “so who’s the real loser?”

He raised an eyebrow, blue eyes wide. “So she is your girlfriend?”

Taichi shut his mouth at once, flustered. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he retorted in a final attempt to one up the man, who would have nothing of it.

Instead, Yamato shook his head with a low chuckle, turning around after a few more steps down the hallway to the building elevator and an awaiting Sora. “These are the good days, Tai,” he called back, hands in his pockets.

Leaning through the open doorway, Taichi raised his hand to wave, smiling, “For better or for worse.”

After they’d stepped into elevator, Taichi shut the door, alone at last. He turned around to survey the flat and gave a deep sigh at the silence before him. The bathroom door clicked open, and a now pajama-clad Mimi peered around the corner, her face fresh and clean, hair twisted loosely over one shoulder. She met his gaze but did not return his grin at the sight of her alone at last, her own eyes narrowed as she studied the flat.

“Are they gone?” she asked, looking distrustful of every shadow in the room.

Taichi locked the front door behind him in response, relief passing over his face when the bolt clicked shut. “I promise,” he said, “that I will never allow any of them into this apartment ever again.”

A smile appeared at the mocking tone of his voice, mood lifting, and she laughed. “Ah, then it was worth it.”

He took a relaxed step towards her. “Now, nothing can interru—,”

His phone rang.

Without thinking, Taichi kicked over the coffee table with the lightning-quick reflexes his youth league football coach had once called a gift of divine retribution. The phone crashed to the floor, the ringing immediately silenced. She smacked a hand over her mouth and he looked at her, and she felt certain he was thinking the same thing: that if either of them moved, it would trigger another call, another knock on the door, another event, another interruption.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” began Taichi slowly, “but I need you to retrace your steps tonight and try to remember if you opened a box you weren’t supposed to, if you tricked a witch in disguise on your way over, if you didn’t forward a chain mail letter— _anything_ counts.”

Mimi hesitated, then confessed squeakily between her fingers, “I never do check my junk inbox.”

“That’s the one,” said Taichi solemnly.

“What do we do?” she whispered, eyes round and wide.

“First,” he said, taking a careful step forward, inch by inch, “we’ll make a little altar of the left over adverts and supermarket coupon lists from my mailbox downstairs, then maybe burn a little sandalwood as incense.”

“Do you have sandalwood?”

“I have sandals.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing a suppressed laugh with a shake of her head. “Not the same.”

“Why would they call it sandalwood then?”

“Taichi—,”

“Move your hand,” he said, now standing before her at last.

But she shook her head.

“Mimi—,”

She mumbled with as much bossy authority as she could with her fist covering her mouth, “Every time we try to kiss, something terrible happens.”

He placed his hands on the sides of her face, tilting her chin up. “Like what?”

“Like people show up—,”

“I’ll change my address.”

“Like our friends keep asking us things—,”

“I move to disown them as our friends.”

Her gaze searched through his own, mirroring the small but honest smile at the corner of his mouth. “Like I realize how scared I am.”

Very gently, he touched his forehead to hers, hands moving down to trace the curve of her shoulders. “I’m scared, too.”

She breathed deeply, eyes closed. “If we do this, it’s real, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

“And if we make it real, we’re in. Aren’t we?”

“I’m in,” he promised.

“No going back?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

She gave the smallest shake of her head, his fingers caught in the tangles of her hair that fell across her neck at the movement. “I don’t want to.”

He smiled, thumb grazing the tip of her ear. “Then move your hand.”

So she did, turning her face up to meet his, looking through him in a way no one had ever quite done before. “Ready?” she asked.

His hands cupped her cheeks, his breath on her skin, his heart on his sleeve. “Ready.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted, but then—

Taichi grinned, nose wrinkled in an impish smirk, and pulled back with an exaggerated shrug, hands raised. “Actually, maybe next time.”

And with a squeal of laughter, she collided with him so suddenly that he might not have seen it coming if he hadn’t already kissed her, if she hadn’t already wanted him, if he hadn’t already loved her, and if they weren’t already gone.

**Author's Note:**

> DONE.   
> To repeat my thank you from the original posting of this story:
> 
> I can’t describe how much fun writing this was, and how grateful I am that it resonated with so many of you. Thank you so, so much for all your support. Whether you left a review, followed along anonymously, or only just glanced through a chapter or two, I’m thrilled that I could have shared such a silly story with so many people I’ll never meet. 
> 
> This story always had a general plan, but things evolved as they tend to do. Through it all, I was mostly determined to show a steady progression of attraction, to explore what it’s like to find something like normalcy after heartbreak and to give yourself permission to take the leap with someone new. You could argue that the theme of this story is, simply, beginning again, one of my favorite themes to write about, and I hope I did it with humor and something like grace. 
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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